Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Getou Suguru watches, deep in thought, as the sunset casts a deep red glow across the restless waters of the bay before him. It’s a hot, sticky night in the city—the foregone conclusion of an even hotter, stickier day, and to Suguru’s consternation, the meagre breeze coming in through the ocean does little to alleviate the thick, stifling nature of the air around him. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he shifts uncomfortably under the heavy weight of his many layers of kimono. No doubt the thick fabric—unsuited, as it is, for the warmer, more humid weather of the southern islands—does him no favours.

By all accounts, he needn’t be here at all. And not just here, hovering quietly at the balustrade that looks out over the bay as ships move through, in and out and in and out in a never-ending cascade. No, in truth, Suguru needn’t even be in this city—away from his family, away from his daughters—if it wasn’t at the behest of his oldest and dearest friend.

But Satoru asked him—sent for him, especially, in a letter by his own hand. And Suguru found, as is the case in many things between them, that he could not refuse.

And so here he is and here he’s been, watching the ships as they travelled, in and out and in and out until, at last, just under an hour ago, there came the ship he was looking for.

At the edge of the bay, a hundred or so meters away from where Suguru stands and cast almost completely in shadow, there’s docked a strange ship from a strange land—its style and fittings foreign, and its crew even more so, though they and their ship both hale from just another kingdom in Suguru’s own country.

The ship’s flags and standards, however, are all too familiar. Violent, harsh black markings slashed across a deep, blood red—the unmistakable colours and pattern of none other than Ryomen Sukuna, the Warlord of the West.

Suguru frowns, just to see them. He can’t help it, though they no longer carry the same meaning as they did, only months ago, when the sight of them struck fear like ice through the hearts of any army unlucky enough to be pitted against Sukuna’s on a battlefield. It’s going to take some getting used to, for Suguru and, he wagers, all the people of the Eastern kingdoms, before even just the thought of those colours evokes anything other than dread.

The winds change, slightly, and Suguru is momentarily broken from his reverie by the catch of a familiar scent, heading towards him from the direction of the ship. He flicks his gaze over, and watches as the imposing figure of a man he knows well emerges from out of the dusky shadows of the portside streets.

“Nanami,” Suguru calls, smiling once his friend is properly in view. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Nanami looks up, eyes widening ever-so-slightly in surprise because of course, he’s only a beta. His sense of smell pales in comparison to Suguru’s.

“Getou-san,” he says, once they’re close enough to speak properly. He’s dressed smartly, but far more lightly than Suguru, in a collared white shirt, a pale kimono and matching grey hakama. “I could say the same to you.”

Suguru lets out a faint, soft chuckle into his hand. “Satoru sent me,” he explains. “He wanted me to keep an eye out for anything suspicious—an alpha unaccounted for, or an unusual number among Sukuna’s party.” With no small amount of relief, Suguru found neither.

At Nanami’s answering nod, Suguru cants his head, curious. “Did Satoru send you, too?” he asks, then, “Are you here to escort Itadori-kun? I thought Hakari-kun was handling it.”

Nanami makes a faint noise of assent. “Gojo-san thought I might make the boy feel more at ease. I’ve seen to him now, and I’ll rejoin him once I’ve sent a message back to the palace.”

Suguru nods. He can see, theoretically, why Satoru chose Hakari as head of the official expedition into Sukuna’s territory. Hakari Kinji is an alpha: bold, solid, strong and fierce—more than capable of winning most any fight he happened to face on the long journey over land to get there, and on the shorter, more vulnerable journey over sea to get back. But likely what Satoru didn’t consider, at least at the start of the season, when the plans for this particular journey were being set into place, is that Hakari falls short on the more softening traits omega tend to look for in their companions: affection, protection, and above all else, reliability.

As far as Suguru is concerned, it’s a miracle Hakari’s rare and precious cargo has arrived in their city’s harbour in one piece at all.

Which reminds him—

“And?” he asks, raising an eyebrow to Nanami in question. “How is our young bride-to-be?”

Nanami frowns, if possible, even deeper, at the words, and Suguru catches the sharp scent of discontent as it starts to radiate from him in waves.

“He’s barely more than a child,” he says, disapproval lacing every syllable.

Suguru hmms with interest. “He’s presented, hasn’t he? If he’s old enough to heat, then he’s old enough to mate.”

At Nanami’s skeptical sidelong glance, Suguru only shrugs. “That’s how the council argues it, Nanami. Whether we agree or not is irrelevant. And besides—” He smirks, shooting Nanami a sly, playful sidelong glance of his own. “He’ll be in good hands, with Satoru.”

Nanami huffs, gaze cast abruptly away. “Yes,” he says dryly, “I suppose you’d know.”

“Nanami!” Suguru says, infusing as much of a scandalized tone into the word as he could, though there’s clear laughter in his voice. Were they in court back at the Gojo estate, he might have whipped out a paper fan and frantically fanned his face with it for the sheer spectacle of it all. “Satoru’s not touched me in years, as you are well aware.”

“I am well aware,” Nanami says, voice deadpan. “Because I’m the one who had to hear his complaints about it for all those years after you ended things with him.”

Suguru laughs—a faint, fond chuckle of recollection. “Now, really,” he says, “if we want to talk about children—”

“I do believe you are about to speak treason, Getou-san.”

Suguru waves him off, still smiling. “I only wanted to say,” he says, “that if Itadori-kun is as much a child as you claim, then he and Satoru are a match made in heaven, and all will soon be right with the realm.”

Nanami deigns not to justify this statement with a response. Instead, he asks, “And how is the prince, this evening? He was—” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Rather quiet, when I left a few hours ago.” This spoken as though quiet was a most unusual state in which to find one Gojo Satoru—which, Suguru knows all too well, it is.

But, Suguru reflects wryly, their prince has long since moved beyond the sedate beginnings of the day—this, the day of his very own wedding—and right on to a new, far more familiar emotion.

And so, “Sour,” Suguru says frankly, in answer. “I do believe the closer we get to the point of no return, the more he fights it like a rat in an inescapable trap.”

This draws a rare smile to Nanami’s face, and after meeting his amused gaze, Suguru can’t help but smile himself in reply.

“Well,” his friend says, after the fond moment between them has passed, and an air of solemn contemplation has descended once more. “He’s about to get a Hell of a lot sourer, when he hears the new terms of Ryomen Sukuna’s contract.”

--*--

“You can’t be serious.”

Suguru exchanges a quick look with Nanami—something along the lines of, Are you going to manage this, or shall I?  met with By all means, manage away—and then returns his gaze to Satoru, who is looking less and less manageable by the second.

“Ryomen Sukuna has requested,” he says, repeating what Nanami has already said, just seconds ago, but slower, “that, after the wedding ceremony, the marriage be consummated immediately.”

A pause.

“In front of a selection of witnesses.”

A longer pause.

“Including the council elders, and a nominated representative from each of the four major clans.”

A longer, more irate pause, and then—

“Four?”

“He’s including his own clan among them,” Nanami chimes in, though it’s clear that fact is evident based on the look on Satoru’s face.

“We’ve gone over the particulars,” Suguru says carefully, before Satoru can voice his thoughts on that little detail, “and it seems we’ve no further say in the matter. Apparently, the council have already agreed—”

“They’ve what?” Satoru exclaims, eyes widening in outrage. There’s a vicious, borderline dangerous spike of displeasure in his scent that fills the whole room, and Suguru sighs, inwardly, at the emergence of yet another fire he’ll have to put out. “They can’t—”

“They can, actually,” Nanami cuts in, and Suguru sends a silent prayer to the Gods that Satoru doesn’t lose his temper and eviscerate him on the spot. Satoru has such lovely chambers—it really would be such a waste to see them stained with blood.

As it happens, Satoru sends their friend a ferocious glare, but Nanami’s not one to be intimidated so easily. Even as a beta. Even facing down an alpha with stronger pheromones than most people would ever encounter in their lifetime.

“We’re walking a fine thread here, Gojo-san,” he says. “If we refuse Sukuna’s terms, he’s liable to call the contract off.”

Satoru scoffs. “He’d be a fool to call it off, and you both know it,” he says bluntly. “He wants this war over just as much as we do. Hell, he suggested it, didn’t he? I certainly wasn’t advertising any interest in mating his brat.”

“Itadori-kun isn’t Sukuna’s son,” Nanami says, with the long-suffering air of someone who has made the effort to explain this far too many times before. “He’s his younger brother.”

Satoru shrugs, waving Nanami’s correction away as if it means nothing. Which, Suguru supposes, it doesn’t. To Satoru—

“Son, cousin, brother, whatever. They’re cut from the same cloth either way, Nanami. Point is, I’ve been saddled with the boy, against my will—”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Suguru interjects, unable to resist, but Satoru continues as though he hasn’t heard him.

“—and all at Sukuna’s request. And now he’s asking even more? I’ve half a mind to call the contract off myself.”

“I’d recommend against that,” Nanami says stiffly. “It’s not just Sukuna you’ll displease with such a decision.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, insolent in that specific bratty, teenage way that casts Suguru back, pleasantly, to the days of their youth.

“The council have made their opinions very clear on all this,” Suguru adds. “They’ve not the resources to support you, if it comes to battle again.”

“And,” Nanami says, tone of voice belying the fact that he’s about to drop something of a bombshell on their prince. “It would seem Sukuna has some leverage, now, that he wasn’t in possession of previously.”

Satoru blinks at him, brows drawn together in question. When Nanami doesn’t immediately avail himself of the big secret, Satoru directs his gaze to Suguru instead, and Suguru sighs—he supposes he’d best get it over with.

“Zenin Megumi-kun is pregnant,” he says, and watches as the realization of this fact, and its greater implications, seems to hit Satoru all at once. “Due in only four more months. Once their child is born, Sukuna’s alliance with the Zenin will be—”

“Complete,” Satoru finishes, a grim, cool determination flickering in his bright blue eyes. “Yes, I follow you, Suguru.” A moment of quiet contemplation. “We can’t fight a war on two fronts.”

Slowly, Suguru nods. “To incite war with Sukuna now is to incite war with the Zenin, too.”

“As much as it no doubt chafes,” Nanami says dryly, “to marry the perfectly nice young omega that just travelled for weeks across the sea to see you, I’m afraid there’s no way of getting out of it, Gojo-san. Not without bloodshed.”

“Don’t say that, Nanami,” Suguru chides him, good-naturedly. “The best way to ensure Satoru does anything is to tell him he can’t.”

“Excuse me,” Satoru snaps. “I’m still right here, you know. And Nanami—” He addresses Nanami with a harsh, mocking smile. “If he’s so perfectly nice, why don’t you go out there and bed him in front of a pack of ugly old men? In fact, I give you my blessing. Go fuck the kid so I don’t have to.”

“Satoru,” Suguru cautions, as Nanami’s eyes flash dangerously in warning. And then, Suguru makes a snap decision. “Nanami, could you leave us, please?”

Nanami glances over at Suguru, then back at Satoru, eyes narrowing as he nods, frowning in earnest now.

“Gladly,” he says, then turns and strides from the room without a look back.

After he’s gone—his scent departing briskly, along with his body—Suguru moves closer to Satoru, who’s procured a jug of sealed plum wine from somewhere, and is pouring himself a cup with just barely trembling hands.

“Why yes, I’d love some wine. Thank you, Satoru.” Suguru shoots him a wry smile, aiming for a light change in tone, but Satoru only meets it with a stubborn glare.

“This is your fault, you know,” he says. His stone cup successfully filled, he places it at his desk and reaches for another, apparently tucked away behind it. Suguru raises his eyebrows, amused.

“I’ve never known you to care for alcohol. Have you been drinking, Satoru?”

“It’s not mine,” Satoru tells him, and hands him his own cup. Suguru inhales the sweet, rich scent of it, and takes a mild sip to savour the taste.

Across from him, Satoru brings his own cup to his mouth and knocks it all back in a single swig.

“Ugh,” he says, face twisting into an expression of revulsion. “Disgusting. Why do people drink this?”

Suguru doesn’t dignify this with a response, and declines to ask where the wine came from if Satoru dislikes it so much. No doubt a souvenir left behind from one of his conquests. The thought stings, but only a little, and he deigns that a personal victory, no matter how small.

“Dare I ask,” he says instead, “how this is my  fault, exactly?”

Satoru lets out a short, sharp laugh, devoid of any true mirth. “If you had only accepted my proposal—”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Suguru cuts him off. “Are you still  harping on about that? Satoru, it was ten years ago!”

“Yes, and it’s ten years I’d have been spared of this nonsense if you hadn’t turned me down.”

In reply to this, Suguru only sends Satoru a glare of his own. He has no interest in revisiting the fine print on why things wouldn’t have worked between them. Chief and most frustrating among them being that they are both alpha and male, and couldn’t bear each other’s children. The Gojo clan needs an heir, after all.

Closely followed by, and somewhat related to, the fact that the council never would have allowed a union between them. They’d have sooner seen Suguru dead in some contrived, tragic ‘accident’, and Satoru bereft and vulnerable to their every whim.

Instead of reminding Satoru, yet again, of these facts, Suguru says instead, “Marriage isn’t so bad, Satoru. And you might yet like Itadori-kun.”

Satoru snorts, leaning lazily against the wall, now, as he pours himself another cup of wine. Suguru fights the overbearing urge to knock it out of his hands. “Do you really think so, Suguru? That boy’s brother is responsible for the death of thousands of soldiers—some of the best fighters I’ve ever known.”

Suguru nods, grave. Their own mentor, Yaga-sensei, a grizzled, powerful old alpha who trained them both from childhood, had perished in one of the more recent battles between the two armies. But still—

“Itadori-kun isn’t Sukuna. And it doesn’t sound like Sukuna cares for him all that much, either way.”

Satoru raises his eyebrows, and shoots Suguru a wan smile. “What tipped you off? The fact that he’s sold him off to me, or the fact that he’s asked me to publicly claim his virginity for all of the council to see?”

Suguru chuckles, though it’s hardly an amusing situation—certainly not for young Itadori Yuji.

“Nanami told me,” he explains. “While we were planning on how to break the news to you. It sounds like—”

He pauses a moment, and thinks of the best way to put it. Satoru waits, eyeing him curiously.

“It sounds like this might be much harder on him than on you, Satoru. I think you should try and remember that, when you’re feeling pitiful. You’re not the one who’ll be baring your neck, before the night is done.”

Satoru’s silent for a long time after this, frowning slightly as he swirls the dregs of wine around in his cup.

Finally, he speaks once more—voice pensive, almost thoughtful. “Did you speak to him, then? Itadori.”

Suguru shakes his head. He made his own way home, in the end, and met up with Nanami again later. Though, he did take a moment first, just to get a look at the boy who was to marry his one and only best friend.

“I did see him, briefly,” Suguru tells Satoru, now.

“And what did you think of him?” Satoru asks.

Suguru smiles, soft. “He’s cute, I suppose. Young. But they all seemed drawn to him, you know. His escort. The whole time I watched, they didn’t leave his side, and he never stopped talking to them.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow. “So he’s popular then? Good. I’ve no use for a charmless bride.”

Suguru laughs out loud. “True. One amongst you has to hold all the charm, I suppose.”

Satoru throws the empty cup at him, and he avoids it with a well-practiced dodge. It hits the wall and breaks, and Suguru tuts with disapproval, but his voice is rich with affection when he says, “I certainly hope you won’t be sharing any of that  behaviour with Itadori-kun!”

Satoru snorts. “Of course not,” he says, and pushes off from the wall. He inhales in a single big, long stretch, and exhales with a sigh—looking like a man about to face his own execution, instead of his wedding.

He turns to Suguru, then, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable—eyes entreating.

“Will you be there?” he asks, in a tone of voice that makes Suguru feel like they’re boys again. “Not for the wedding, I mean. For what…comes after.”

Suguru shakes his head. Reaches out and places a hand, gentle, across Satoru’s cheek. “I do still have my own feelings, you know,” he says. “And seeing you with another—I don’t quite think I’m there yet, Satoru. I may never be.”

Satoru nods, understanding. He turns his head slightly, and kisses Suguru’s palm in a sweet, tender gesture that threatens to cast Suguru back to a time when it might have ruined him, to be here now, about to watch the love of his life bind himself eternally to another.

But then the moment passes, and Satoru pulls away, allowing Suguru’s hand to fall from his face.

“Poor Naoya,” he says, a wicked smile cutting itself across his face. Suguru only blinks at him, uncomprehending, until he continues, “He was after Megumi for years, you know. Even before he knew he was an omega. And now Megumi’s pregnant with the Warlord’s child.” He laughs, sharp and cruel. “I only wish I could have seen the look on his face when he found out.”

Suguru smirks himself, in answer. “You still can be. No one in the Zenin delegation knows, yet. Nanami only knew because Itadori-kun told him.”

Satoru’s face lights up, delighted. “Oh, no. You’re telling me I get to be the one to break the news?” He grins, and adds, “Finally, something to look forward to about this wretched day.”

Suguru laughs, and for a moment all the anxiety of minutes earlier is forgotten. And then—

“Well,” Satoru says, sighing, his hand coming up to run agitated fingers through his hair. “I suppose there isn’t anything else for it, is there?”

Suguru smiles at him, impossibly fond. “No, I suppose there isn’t.”

“Well, then,” Satoru says, and starts making his way over to the door. “Let’s go meet my bride.”

Chapter Text

In a distant wing of the intricate, extensive network of households that make up the Gojo family estate—and, as the prince himself is about to find out, about as far from Gojo Satoru’s chambers as a person can get—Itadori Yuji stands before a mirror twice his height and three times his width, and regards himself in his wedding attire for the very first time.

He’s dressed in what he’s told is classic, traditional bridal wear amongst the Eastern clans—long, flowing layers of pale cream and gold in a heavy drape across his frame, capped with a large hood designed to shade most of his face from view. For modesty, he’s been told, though no one’s managed to explain to him how anyone could be expected to feel modest in a kimono like this.

It’s beautiful. It’s buttery soft, with a thread count he’s not even going to begin to guess. It is, without a doubt, more expensive than all of the clothing Yuji’s ever worn on his body before, combined.

So how, Yuji thinks to himself, exasperated, has he already managed to ruin it?

“Are we even sure I really have to wear this?” he asks, addressing no one among his party of attendants in particular.

A few feet away, his friend Junpei makes what he’ll never admit is a sound of utter frustration, and crosses the distance between them, insinuating himself in between Yuji and the mirror to glare down at the source of everyone’s ire.

A stain—bold, reddish purple and roughly the same size as one of Yuji’s open palms. The unlucky repercussion, not of Yuji’s journey from his brother’s territory to the Gojo clan’s, nor even of his journey from his brother’s ship to the Gojo estate, but of the trip from the entrance of the estate to his current quarters.

In Yuji’s defence—and as he has repeatedly had to remind his hysterical companions—it wasn’t technically his fault.

In preparation for the wedding, the Gojo family has assigned an entire wing of their estate to Yuji and his retinue, and within that, an entire suite of chambers to Yuji himself. Yuji, his procession in tow, had been making their painstaking way—hindered in no small part by the fact that Yuji was apparently expected to walk the whole way there in his wedding attire—through the winding halls of the building when they’d encountered a harried maid, hindered herself by the precarious placement of a wine pitcher and five cups on the single serving board balanced in her arms.

It all happened in the span of a second or two. The maid tripped and went flying, her pitcher of wine right along with her—right into Yuji, who by this point had managed to establish himself at the very front of the party.

Yuji didn’t hesitate. He caught the maid, but missed the wine, and didn’t even notice the dire consequences of his actions until he saw the dawning look of horror across everyone’s faces and glanced down to see the rapidly spreading stain splashed, enormous, across his clothed, stark white hip.

After he sent the poor woman on her way, amidst much bowing and scraping and a heartfelt appeal that she not be turned over to the prince for punishment, Yuji was hurried off into his rooms and sat down on the nearest piece of furniture so that his entourage could survey the damage.

Responses from his companions were mixed.

There was, of course, anxiety.

“We’ll be executed,” said Ijichi, face positively pouring with sweat as they all huddled around Yuji, dressed as he was in the ruined kimono. “All of us. Oh, Gods, what are we going to do?”

Anger.

“What were you thinking? You should have just let her fall!” said Kugisaki, and Yuji pointedly neglected to mention that she was the one who insisted he wear the damned kimono on the walk here in the first place.

Reassurance.

“We can fix this,” said Junpei, a determined glint in his eye as he looked over the steadily growing splash of red. “It can’t be that hard to clean, right?”

Resignation.

“I suppose something always has to go wrong, doesn’t it?” said Nitta, frowning down at the stain as though it had wronged her, personally. “I just wish it could’ve been on my day off.”

And finally: delusion.

“Don’t worry, Yuji,” Choso told him, tone gentle and genuine. “You can barely see it, anyway.”

And now, here they are, a full twenty minutes later and no closer to a solution than they were when they started. Ijichi and Nitta are gone—Yuji dismissed them, a few minutes ago, finally taking pity on them and the clear spike in their blood pressure. He’s sure there are more important things they could be tending to now, anyway, seeing as they’re under the employ of the Gojo clan and not Yuji himself.

“Of course you have to wear it,” Junpei tells him. “What else would you wear? Your hakama?”

Yuji frowns, churlish. “I don’t see why I can’t—”

Over in the corner, where she’s lounging across one of the many chairs Yuji’s chambers are adorned with, Kugisaki groans.

“We’ve been over this, Itadori,” she says. She doesn’t look up from where she is, very fastidiously, filing her nails. “The Gojo family’s stuck up as all Hell. They probably paid through the nose for that kimono, just to show they could.”

In front of him, Junpei nods. “If you don’t wear it, they’ll take it as a grave insult.”

Yuji sighs. “Fine,” he says. “So what’ll we do?”

“You could always pass it off as intentional,” Choso chimes in from where he’s standing guard over by the door. “Some new fashion trend or another. Just don’t let anyone get close enough to see it properly.”

Junpei dismisses him, hands settling authoritatively on his hips in the way he always used to do when they were children, playing together in the grass. “You’re forgetting that Gojo Satoru isn’t stupid, Choso. He’s bound to notice, at the very least, and he’s the one person Itadori-san can’t avoid.”

“I’m telling you, he won’t notice,” Kugisaki says, eyes still on her nails. “You’re worrying over nothing.”

Yuji thinks quietly to himself that that’s very easy for her to say when her own kimono—a comparatively expensive deep, forest green—remains pristine and unblemished, but suspects telling her so won’t help them much with the predicament at hand.

“All right,” Junpei says, apparently having made a decision. He gestures at Choso. “Choso, fetch me some towels and a bucket of water. Itadori-san—take it off. We’ll just have to try and dab it out.”

Yuji moves, hastily, to obey—perhaps a little too hastily, in fact, as rather than untying his obi and stepping out of the heavy and numerous layers of kimono gracefully, he instead opts to try and tug them all off over his head at once. Inevitably, the fabric gets caught on his broad, muscled shoulders, and Yuji releases a quiet, pitiful squeak as he realizes he’s stuck, almost completely bare from the waist down.

“Junpei,” he says, voice muffled. “Can you—"

There’s a light commotion, from the direction of the door, and then Yuji hears it sliding open as Junpei says, “Wait!”, his voice alarmed.

Yuji catches a familiar scent from the doorway, right before he hears the familiar voice of the alpha it belongs to.

“Whoa, kid!” Hakari says, voice carrying a ribald edge as he lets out a smooth, low whistle. “Save that view for your husband.”

Junpei makes a tsk sound as Yuji, blushing furiously, shoves the intricate fabric back down to cover him again, eyes flickering up to see not just Hakari but his mate, Hoshi Kirara, too, standing at the entrance to the room. Noticing Yuji’s discomfort, Choso moves quickly to shield him from view—though, at this point, the damage has already been done. He only hopes Hakari doesn’t say anything about whatever he just saw to the prince.

“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Junpei asks waspishly, but Hakari acts like he hasn’t heard him.

“We’re heading off,” he says, addressing Yuji, and Yuji peeks his head out from behind Choso’s shoulder, curious. “Just came to say our well wishes and all that.”

“You’re so lucky, Yuu-chan,” Kirara says, a bubbly smile writ across their face. “There’s no one in the whole realm as handsome as Sacchan-sama!”

“Oi,” Hakari says mildly. “I think you’re forgetting someone.”

Kirara only giggles, and waves him off, their attention fixed on Yuji. “Aren’t you excited? There are omega all across the city who’d kill to be where you are right now.”

Yuji laughs, a little self-conscious as he averts his gaze down to the floor.

“I don’t care what he looks like,” he says, and turns to look back at himself in the mirror behind him. He cants his body first one way, and then the other, to try and see himself from an angle he actually likes. At his hip, the red stain seems to be growing, if possible, even larger. “As long as he’s kind.”

A long, pointed pause, and then both Hakari and Kirara burst loudly into laughter. Yuji looks at them, confused, and in the reflection beside him he sees Junpei look over at them too, annoyed.

“What’s so funny?” Yuji asks, stepping in before Junpei can ask the question more sharply.  

“It’s nothing, kid,” Hakari says, once he’s caught his breath. He wipes an errant tear from his eye, and continues, “It’s just—Gojo’s about as far from kind as you can get.”

Beside him, Kirara nods, still chuckling lightly as they add, “Sacchan-sama is perfect, Yuu-chan. In everything but personality.”

Yuji frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. He opens his mouth to question them further, but Junpei cuts in.

“If the two of you are finished,” he says tartly, “Itadori-san needs to concentrate on the final preparations, now. Please leave us.”

Hakari sneers, clearly chafing at the fact that he’s being given orders by an omega—and a foreign omega, at that—but he seems happy enough to leave without any fuss, and Kirara seems happy enough to follow his lead, as usual.

“See you around, kid,” he says, shooting Yuji a mock salute and a lascivious grin from the doorway, and Yuji can’t help but return it with a fond smile of his own. “We’ll be giving the ceremony a miss. Boss’s orders.” Boss? Yuji thinks, then remembers, Oh, right. Gojo. “But we’ll be in the city for another week, at least. Don’t be a stranger, all right?”

“Yeah!” Kirara adds. “Don’t be a stranger, Yuu-chan!”

“I won’t be,” Yuji says, then, “Thank you, Hakari-san. Kirara-san.” It’s been a mad, long journey to get here, but he’s grateful all the same, to have been under their care and protection.

And to be quite honest, the closer he gets to his wedding ceremony and inevitable meeting with Gojo Satoru—his future mate, and his brother’s enemy—the more Yuji starts to wish he could get back on Sukuna’s ship and do the whole journey all over again, as many times as it took for this sick, nervous feeling in his gut to go away.

The two of them turn to leave, and then Hakari seems to remember something.

“Oh, and by the way, we ran into Gojo outside. I think he’s coming to see you.”

And with that, they’re gone as, in wake of their departure, the room descends into a tense, horrified silence as comprehension dawns over everyone they’ve just left behind.

“Wait,” Kugisaki says. “He’s coming here now ? Who does this guy think he is? The wedding’s in an hour!”

“Who cares about that?” Junpei says. “We haven’t figured out what to do about the kimono, yet!” He calls out to Choso. “Choso, can you—"

“I’ll stand guard,” Choso answers, stepping outside the room. “If I see him, I’ll send him off. Tell him Yuji’s indisposed, or something like that.”

Nearby, Kugisaki rises from her seat and heads for the door herself. “I’d better go, too,” she says. “I’ll try and distract him on the way. He never passes up a chance to badmouth my Granny, you know.” She turns and shoots Yuji one of her rare, borderline benevolent smiles. “Good luck, all right?”

Yuji nods, sending her a grateful smile of his own in response. “Thanks, Kugisaki.”

She leaves, sliding the door shut behind her, and then it’s only Yuji and Junpei left. For a moment, the two of them just stand there in silence, Yuji’s eyes on the door and Junpei’s eyes on Yuji, and then—

“Are you anxious, Itadori-san?” Junpei asks, his eyes questioning.

Yuji blinks. How did he—he thinks to himself, and then remembers.

He’s an omega now. His feelings are, for better or worse, broadcast openly for any and all with a half-decent sense of smell to know about.

Well—he supposes there’s no point in lying, then.

“A little,” he admits, slowly, then, “But not—not about the kimono. We’ll figure that out, I just—” He trails off, but Junpei nods in understanding.

“Is it about the ceremony?” he asks, delicately. “Or for what comes after?”

Yuji stiffens.

What comes—

—after.

Whatever pheromones Yuji’s giving off—he’s terrible, at scenting himself, and always has been—must spike, then, because Junpei’s eye widen in alarm.

“Both,” Yuji says quickly, because it’s the truth, technically, but also, he doesn’t want to talk about what’s expected of him after the ceremony. He would prefer, in fact, to pretend that there is no after the ceremony, and focus for now upon the ceremony itself.

Yuji wasn’t born from nobility, like Gojo Satoru was. Yuji’s and Sukuna’s parents were humble farmers, and even now, at the height of his power, his brother is neither a prince nor a lord. Ryomen Sukuna, Warlord of the West, clawed his way up to the top through sheer brute force, and he brought what little remained of his family—that being Yuji, his baby brother—along with him.

As a result, Yuji is no expert on decorum amongst the aristocracy—let alone the aristocracy of a kingdom completely and utterly foreign to his own. He has little knowledge of what’s expected of him, over the course of tonight’s ceremony, but if it’s any bit as stifling as the clothes he’s apparently expected to wear for it, he doubts he’s in for a very pleasant evening.

His eyes flick away from Junpei’s, back to the vision of himself in the mirror. Tragically, the faint reddish purple of the wine stain is no less visible, and Yuji watches as a troubled frown settles across the face of his reflection.

Three months ago, in the first few weeks after Yuji’s first heat, his elder brother took him aside and told him, a deep, satisfied finality to his voice, that he was to be mated to—

“Gojo Satoru?” Yuji asked, uncomprehending. “But isn’t he our enemy?”

“He’s my enemy,” Sukuna corrected him, eyes on his desk. He was composing a letter, Yuji saw, though to what end, he wasn’t sure. Sukuna never shared such things with him. “He’s nothing, to you, but by the turn of the season, he’ll be everything.” He looked up then, his fierce, blood red eyes meeting Yuji’s warm, burnt gold.

“So you had better keep him happy, Yuji.”

Yuji stared at him. “You’re trading me off,” he realised, and felt his stomach sink, heavy, like a stone. “Sukuna. You can’t—“

Something in Sukuna’s eyes flashed, and all at once he was standing to his full, impressive height, towering over Yuji like the imposing, beastly alpha that he was. That he always had been.

“I can,” he said coldly. “And I have done. The contract is signed, all parties have agreed, and you are to be on your way within the month.”

Yuji felt sick. Like he was seconds away from throwing up. And beyond that, he felt angry. “All parties? You didn’t say anything to me. Why didn’t you say anything?” His mind flashed, to Sukuna’s own mate, and the thought that he had kept such a secret somehow stung more than his brother’s betrayal ever could. “Did Fushiguro-san know?”

Sukuna’s red eyes narrowed, and he scowled, a dangerous edge to his voice and to his scent when he replied, “Megumi has other things on his mind. I saw no need to trouble him with it.”

So he didn’t know, Yuji thinks, and the hurt alleviates, somewhat. He wasn’t sure his burgeoning friendship with the young Zenin could survive such a deceit.

“Why?” he asked, mind spinning with the new, terrifying understanding of what now awaited him once the spring came to a close. “I don’t understand. I’ve always done anything you asked. I’ve always stood by you. Grandfather said—“

“Don’t bring Grandfather into this,” Sukuna said, sinking back into his seat with a groan. He brought a hand up to rub, tiredly, at his eyes. “It’s under his bidding that I took you in at all. And I’ve respected his wishes, have I not?” He gestured around the room. “You’ve had a home. Food, clothing, companionship. I’ve done all I could for you, boy, and now it’s time you returned the favour.”

“How?” Yuji asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “By spreading my legs for the first alpha that makes an offer?” He shouldn’t have been so surprised, he knew. He should have seen this coming, from the moment he presented. The moment he, and everyone around him, discovered that he was an omega.

Sukuna barked a harsh, cruel laugh. “No one offered for you, boy,” he said, and the words are a twist of the knife buried, hilt deep, in Yuji’s gut. “ I made a proposal, and that cur finally accepted—so there’ll be no bloodshed between us, now or ever again. As long as you—“ He gestured at Yuji. “ Spread your legs, as you so politely put it, and keep him buried between them, too pleased with himself to think about how much he despises me and mine.”

“I see,” Yuji said quietly, resigned, now, that this was to be his fate—Sukuna was right. There was too much at stake to refuse. “Do I have your leave to go, brother?” 

“By all means,” Sukuna said, waving a hand in dismissal. His eyes were already focussed again on his letters. Yuji nodded, and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Yuji,” Sukuna said just as he reached the door, and Yuji looked back, numbly curious.

“Bearing him a brat or three wouldn’t hurt, either. Might as well secure our placement in the bloodline, while we can.”

Now, Yuji takes a deep, long inhale, and thinks back on his brother’s words.

Keep him happy.

In a way, Yuji’s been grateful for the catastrophic distraction of the wine stain, because it’s managed, for the most part, to keep his mind off of the wedding—No, he thinks, the marriage—itself, and all that it entails. As it is, now, he’s not looking forward to the ceremony but he can hardly bear to consider what will happen, after, when all is said and all is done and his marriage to Gojo Satoru is complete.

The bedding. The consummation. The mating bite.

Yuji’s neck tingles, as if under the ministrations of a phantom touch. No one’s ever touched me there, he thinks, and flushes at the thought.

No one’s ever touched Yuji anywhere. Not long ago, he expected that would always be the case until he decided he was ready for it not to be, but nature, it seems, had other plans.

He’s been avoiding thinking about this night for as long as he’s known that it was coming. Hasn’t wanted to think of it—to think of strange, cold hands and a strange, heavy body, stripping him naked and holding him down for the taking and, more than that, the claiming. The moment when Yuji crosses over, body and soul, from being his own self to belonging to someone. Belonging to an alpha.

And even worse, of course, is that, thanks to Sukuna’s insistence that the consummation be verified and confirmed, beyond any shadow of a doubt, it’s all to take place not in the intimate, quiet privacy of the matrimonial bedroom, but before an audience. An audience of more men Yuji doesn’t know, no doubt, though in that aspect he can’t help but feel a little relieved. It’s mortifying enough that a man he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life is set to witness his inexperienced attempts at seduction—he doesn’t know how he’d cope if any one among his own friends happened to catch a glimpse of it, too.

He finds himself thinking, then, of Hakari and Kirara, and what they had to say about his intended mate.

Gojo’s about as far from kind as you can get.

Sacchan-sama is perfect, Yuu-chan. In everything but personality.

“Itadori-san,” Yuji hears, and he realizes, embarrassed, that he’s been staring at his reflection in silence for what’s sure to have been several minutes, now.

“Sorry, Junpei,” he says, shaking off the nagging seed of anxiety that’s now well and truly worrying its way through his gut. “I’m fine. It’s fine, let’s just—” He looks down at the stain, and something about it seems to serve, almost, as a reminder of just how out of his depth he is, here.

“Let’s just get this cleaned off, okay?”

It doesn’t matter, he thinks. I don’t need him to be nice to me.

There are countless lives at stake—not just on Yuji’s side, but on Gojo’s, too. And Sukuna made it clear to him, before he left. Their resources are exhausted—they can’t survive another war. The binding of their clans is, truly, their last resort. Their marriage must succeed.

You can’t afford to fail, Yuji tells himself, firm.

You just have to keep him happy.

--*--

As Gojo Satoru turns a corner and finally—finally—finds himself at the end of a hall that undoubtedly leads through to the suite of rooms that have been assigned to his betrothed, he decides then and there that he’d sooner see the building demolished than ever have to set foot in it again.

He doesn’t know which one of his ancestors supervised the design of this building, but he knows for certain that if he had his way they’d be dug up, put on trial, executed and buried all over again.

He thought Suguru might come along with him, but his friend demurred.

“He’ll be distressed enough just meeting you, Satoru. We don’t want to throw another strange alpha into the mix.”

Satoru grumbled, at that, but he allowed it all the same, and they bade their farewells to each other at one of the lesser guest quarters, a few buildings away. Satoru continued on alone.

It feels like hours, now, since he got here, passing by Hakari and his omega on the way in, though surely it can’t have been more than fifteen minutes or so. Maybe longer, if he counts the time he got held up with Kugisaka Nobara.

She must have quarreled again with Lady Kugisaki, he thinks idly. She sure did have a lot to say about the old hag.

Though he’s finally found Itadori’s quarters—knows it, by the faint, unmistakable scent of unfamiliar omega within—Satoru finds he’s faced, now, with a new and altogether more tedious problem.

The unhappy looking beta eyeing him warily from halfway down the hall.

The man’s only a few years younger, maybe, than Satoru himself, dark haired and dark eyed with a black line across his nose in the fashion of one branch or another of the Kamo clan—identifying him, to Satoru, as the Kamo bastard he’s heard about, that abandoned his own clan to throw his lot in with Ryomen Sukuna. What was his name?  Satoru wonders. Chotto? Kozo?

The sight of him isn’t particularly intimidating on its own, but Satoru feels his hackles raise, all the same, feeling a strange, unsettled tension in the air that has him bracing for a fight. And his instincts are only proven right when, as he approaches, the man shifts from his post and walks forward to meet him.

“Can I help you with something?” the man asks, and Satoru blinks at him, perplexed.

He doesn’t know who I am, he realizes, and almost bursts into laughter at the thought.

“I’m here to see Itadori Yuji,” he says, then, “My bride,” to ensure his meaning is clear.

The man is unfazed. “Yuji isn’t taking any visitors right now.”

Satoru stares at him.

“Well, that’s all right,” he says, slowly, “because I’m not a visitor. This is my house.”

To that, the beta doesn’t have an answer, and Satoru moves, smoothly, to sidestep him and be on his way. There, he thinks, Conversation over.

He’s barely taken a step before the man is in front of him again, blocking his way.

“Is it really appropriate,” the man says, “to see the bride in his chambers, right before the wedding?”

Satoru feels the alpha in him hum with irritation, at the man’s tone, and he stands his ground.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” he says, voice dangerously light, “but frankly, I can do what I like with my bride, before the wedding, because he’s my bride. It’s not as if he’ll be left without prospects if a scandal breaks out.”

The man—

Choso, Satoru remembers, suddenly. Choso is his name. Itadori’s babysitter.

Choso scowls. “Surely you can wait, Gojo-san. Yuji needs a little more time.” And then, either undeterred or unaware of the dangerous spike in Satoru’s scent, he shifts his right hand to rest on the hilt of the sword, sheathed at his hip. “I’m afraid I can’t let you through.”

Satoru’s pheromones flare, and he can’t decide whether it’s fortunate, for Choso, that his sense of smell isn’t strong enough to be crushed beneath the weight of them, or unfortunate, because it means he doesn’t get any warning for what might follow.

“And I’m afraid,” Satoru says, icily, “that if you don’t take your hand off that blade in my presence, I’ll spare you the trouble and do it for you.” A pause. “Give or take an arm or two.”

Choso’s eyes narrow, calculated, and Satoru watches as, pointedly, he lowers his hand.

“I don’t think maiming me would make the best impression on your omega, you know.”

Satoru snorts out a harsh, cold laugh. “What do I care? I don’t need him to like me.” He pauses, leans back to regard Choso from a new angle. “What are you hiding, Choso?”

The man’s eyes widen, at Satoru’s recollection of his name, and Satoru privately preens, smug. Yes, bastard, he thinks, I know your name and I know your story, too. You’re protecting that boy and I want to know why.

“Is it an assassination plot?” he asks, with the tone of someone asking Is there fish in this stew?  “Or—oh, is he with a lover? How bold.”

Choso blanches, and though he’s only a beta, Satoru feels as if he can visibly see the ripples of tension radiating out of him like waves.

“Of course not,” the man says stiffly, apparently offended on his charge’s behalf. “It’s nothing like that.”

Satoru raises his eyebrows, his patience very nearly evaporated by this stage, and moves to walk around him again. “Well then,” he says, “Surely it’s nothing I can’t handle. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He’s not taken more than two steps before he feels a hand close around his arm, and he glances first down, stunned, then back up to see Choso looking at him now with something in his gaze that almost resembles a plea.

“Yuji’s unwell,” Choso blurts out, then, and at what he must recognize as the dangerous look in Satoru’s eyes, hastily drops his arm.

“Is he, now,” Satoru says. Nanami didn’t mention anything about that, he muses, and considers again whether Choso might be being dishonest with him. “Is it catching?”

“It’s nerves,” Choso continues. “Please understand, Gojo-san. He’s only young, and it’s been a long journey for him.

Satoru steps back, considering. “I’m aware,” he says, then, “I’m not here to eat him, you know. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Choso shakes his head. “I know,” he says. “I’m not trying to interfere, it’s just—”

He pauses, and Satoru watches him, curious. He resists the urge to make a comment on just how interfering the beta’s been for someone who has no intention of interfering.

“I’m just asking,” Choso says, eyes lowered in a surprising sign of submission, from someone’s who’s been looking Satoru dead in the eye since the moment they met. “If it can’t wait, for just a little longer.” He looks up then, meets Satoru’s gaze, and says, “In under an hour, you’ll be married. After that, he’s yours. I just wanted to give him a little longer for himself, is all.”

A strange, unpleasant feeling crawls across Satoru’s skin, at these words, and he finds, all at once, that he doesn’t quite care to continue on with this anymore.

After that, he’s yours.

“Fine,” he says coldly, after a moment. “Let him have the hour to himself, then, if it’s so important to him.”

And without another word—without an effort made, even, to observe the beta’s reaction to his words, Satoru turns and walks away.

Whether it’s by sheer force of his anger or the fact that his subconscious mind just knows the way, now, he’s out of the building in only a few short minutes, and he breathes in, relieved, at the feeling of the cool night air hitting his face. The wind’s finally changed, he thinks.

There’s an icy agitation brewing in his stomach, and he knows it must show in his scent, if the looks on the faces of the servants walking by are anything to go off of. The Kamo bastard’s words play on loop through his mind, and he can’t quite seem to settle himself at the memory of them.

He’s yours, Satoru thinks, and his eyes narrow, a bitter taste stinging at the back of his throat. He supposes, then, that that’s just how it’s to be. That is, after all, how it’s always been, between alpha and omega. The alpha marks, and the omega is marked. The alpha commands, and the omega obeys. The alpha possesses, and the omega is possessed. It’s why, for as long as Satoru can remember, he’s never had more than a passing interest in omega—and certainly never wanted to mate one. He can’t imagine anything less desirable than a mate who does everything you say, only because you’re the one who says it.

He’s yours, Satoru thinks, and he sighs, the weight of all that’s still to come tonight settling hard and heavy in his heart.

No wonder Itadori Yuji fears him.

Well, he thinks, a refreshing petulance sweeping in to the push away the darkness of everything else. I never said I wanted him, anyway.

Chapter Text

It was just barely cresting dawn, on the day Yuji ventured out from his brother’s estate for the last time. There was a faint mist in the air, casting a pale grey sheen over everything, and Yuji squinted, trying to get one last real look at the grounds that had been his home for eight comfortable years.

A carriage was waiting to carry him to the nearest port city, where his brother’s ship would deliver him across the sea to his new mate, and his new life. Yuji had argued Sukuna on the need for a carriage when he was perfectly capable of riding there himself, but his brother refused to compromise.

“I’ll not have you waste my time, money and effort by getting thrown from a horse and killed before you’ve even left my territory.”

Yuji, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, had reminded Sukuna he had been riding horses for as long as he could walk, and that he’d choose his horse from amongst the safest, most even-tempered of the stables, but his brother was adamant.

Yuji’s request was denied.

It was only one among many things that Sukuna had denied him in the weeks leading up to his departure.

But in one respect, he had been merciful. Though Yuji was to say goodbye to the vast majority of the household staff and servants, his dearest childhood friends were to accompany him as his own personal retinue. Junpei, his manservant, and Choso, his bodyguard.

“But don’t blame me if Gojo Satoru has them killed,” Sukuna had said, uncaring for the way Yuji blanched to hear such a thing.

The two of them were waiting for Yuji now. Junpei, at the door to the carriage, and Choso, already astride his horse—a calm, bay gelding that would have otherwise been Yuji’s to ride, had Sukuna not forbidden it.

Sukuna himself, of course, was nowhere to be found. He had been in an awful temper, these last few days, and when Yuji had gone to his chambers last night to bid him his formal farewells, he had been refused entry.

Yuji frowned, at the memory. The rejection stung, but not out of pure, brotherly sentimentality. In truth, it cut Yuji’s pride to know the man who’d traded him off without regard would not even deign to look him in the eyes in the final, irreversible juncture of his decision. Ill enough that Sukuna wasn’t even to attend his wedding—instead sending his most loyal attendant, Uraume—but to not even grant Yuji’s departure the acknowledgement it deserved, after all these years…

He'd sooner say goodbye to one of his prized stallions, than to his own full-blooded brother, Yuji thought bitterly, eyes honed upon the distant windows of his brother’s palace, through one of which he knew Sukuna was no doubt watching him.

“Enough dawdling,” said a voice, and Yuji looked over his shoulder to see Uraume frowning at him. Uraume was often frowning, where Yuji was concerned.

“We’ve a schedule to keep, if we’re to meet up with the Gojo family envoys.” This being said, there was a clear look in Uraume’s eyes that they wouldn’t particularly mind not having to interact with Gojo’s emissaries ever again. But Sukuna’s instructions were very clear, and neither he nor his enemy, Gojo Satoru himself, were to be trifled with.

So, “I’m coming,” Yuji said, and turned his back at last upon his home as he made his way over to the carriage. And then—

“Yuji,” another voice called suddenly from behind, and Yuji turned, surprised, to see Fushiguro Megumi making his way across the grounds towards him at a light, even jog.

Yuji barely had time to process the faint warmth in his chest, at the sight and familiar scent of his friend, before Uraume spoke again.

“Young master,” they said, terse disapproval writ all over their voice. “Please, tread carefully—”

“It’s a baby, Uraume,” Fushiguro snapped, coming to a stop before Yuji and glaring at Uraume as though they were an unsightly bug beneath his shoe. “Not a mortal wound.”

Yuji snorted, amused, though he understood Uraume’s concern. Sukuna’s mate was well into his pregnancy, now, the swell of new life faint but clearly visible beneath the layers of his kimono, and there was much at stake for them all if something were to happen to either parent or child.

“Fushiguro,” he said, grinning despite himself as his friend’s gaze returned to him. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” Fushiguro had kept Yuji company until very late last night, ostensibly to provide support as Yuji, in a panicked frenzy, packed as many of his possessions for the journey as he could.

Of course, what actually ended up happening was that Fushiguro—the vastly more organised of the two of them—took over, and managed most of the packing for him. By the time it was all finished, the bells had long since tolled midnight and they'd tiredly said their goodbyes, with the promise of writing each other once Yuji was settled in at the Gojo estate.

"I wanted to give you something," Fushiguro told him now, a serious glint in his eyes. He shifted, rummaging through the folds of his kimono, and Yuji took a moment to absorb his friend's unusually haggard appearance. The dark eye circles, the frazzled hair, the wrinkled, unwashed kimono—the same one, in fact, Yuji was sure he'd been wearing when he left Yuji's chambers last night.

Yuji opened his mouth to ask, 'Did you even go to bed at all?'  then closed it again when, with a subdued, triumphant smile flashing across his face, Fushiguro found what he was looking for and held it up for Yuji to see.

He held in his hands a small, intricately carved wooden sculpture in the shape of a wolf. 

Yuji's gaze flicked between the wolf and Fushiguro, then back to the wolf, as he tried to comprehend what Fushiguro'd just told him. "Wait," he said, finally. "This is...for me? But it's—"

"The Zenin clan's symbol," Fushiguro confirmed. "I know. But it's a symbol of protection, too. And loyalty, and—" He paused, pale complexion dusting over with a gentle pink. "Family, in general," he finished at a low mumble, avoiding Yuji's gaze.

Yuji felt a smile come, unbidden, to his face. "Thank you," he said. "Where'd you get it?"

Fushiguro handed it over, scent flickering with a curious mix of pleasure and embarrassment. "Isn't it obvious? I made it."

Yuji's hands fumbled at the words, and he nearly dropped the carving into the dirt. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods for his reflexes as he expertly caught it before it could fall.

“You made this?” he asked, incredulous. Now he had a firm grasp on it, Yuji took a moment to examine the sculpture more closely. It was carved of a deep, cherry red wood, the curves of the wolf so soft and detailed it could just as easily, Yuji mused, have been worn down by water as by a blade.

Fushiguro shrugged. “Sorry, I made a couple of mistakes. Hope it’s not too noticeable.”

“It’s perfect. Fushiguro, I—I don’t have anything for you.”

He laughed. “You’re the one getting married this time, Yuji, not me. And—” He reached out and punched Yuji, lightly, on the arm. “I told you already. Call me Megumi. I've been calling you by your first name for weeks now.”

Yuji laughed, a little nervously. “Sorry. I keep forgetting.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it also wasn’t the complete truth, either. The truth was, he shuddered to imagine his brother’s jealousy if anyone in the household dare address his mate by his given name—Sukuna had made it clear that privilege was to be his, and his alone.

Thinking of Sukuna again sparked a memory, and Yuji shot Megumi a wary glance. “Have you, um,” he began. “Have you spoken with Sukuna, since—?”

Megumi scowled. “If it’s his wish to be forgiven, then he knows what needs to be said. Until then, he can have his chambers to himself.”

Yuji swallowed, unhappy, but nodded all the same. Megumi and Sukuna had had a fearsome quarrel, three days earlier, and not spoken to each other since. Yuji couldn’t help but feel responsible, considering his wedding—or rather, the exact circumstances of his consummation, and Sukuna’s failure to consider Megumi’s opinion—had been what sparked the argument in the first place.

Perhaps scenting Yuji’s remorse, Megumi reached out, placing a bracing hand on Yuji’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Enough. Everything will be fine, with me and Sukuna. Actually—” He hesitated. “There’s something I wanted to say to you, about that.”

Yuji blinked at him, bemused, and Megumi rolled his eyes.

“No, I mean—not about that. About you, and—and your marriage.”

“What about it?” he asked, then before Megumi could answer, “It’s okay, you know. It’s not—it’s not what I would’ve picked, but I’m an omega now, and Sukuna didn’t have a choice, and—"

“Yuji,” Megumi cut him off, frowning. His scent spiked in annoyance. “I already said not to worry about me and Sukuna, all right? I’m talking about you and—and Gojo-san.” He went quiet for a moment, apparently stewing on what he wanted to say, and then he blurted it out, all in a single breath. 

“I wanted to tell you that I think it might be good for you. I think—” He looked as if it physically pained him, to speak the next words out loud. “I think he might even be good for you.”

“Oh,” Yuji said. He stared at Megumi as though he’d just grown a second head. “You know it’s the Gojo Satoru, right? Sukuna’s worst enemy? The one who’s personally killed hundreds of our men? The strongest alpha in Japan?”

Megumi grinned. “Don’t tell Sukuna you called him that.”

Yuji laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. “I’m just saying, I don’t think it matters whether he’s good for me or not. Hopefully we just—” He hesitated, blushing. “Hopefully we can just get the consummation out of the way, and then it’s only a matter of enduring a heat or two with him before I get pregnant, right?” He shrugged again, though it was with a more melancholy affect, now. “I’m sure he’s got no shortage of lovers. He’ll probably leave me alone, once I’ve given him an heir.”

“It’s doesn’t have to be that way,” Megumi murmured, unusually soft. At Yuji’s skeptical expression, he continued. “When I learned about my engagement to Sukuna, I never thought it would work.” He smirked, lightly. “I thought I’d be miserable, and that he’d get bored and kill me sooner or later.”

Yuji nodded. Those early days of his brother’s marriage had been strange and rocky for them all, and none among them could have imagined Sukuna developing such a striking, immediate attachment to the young Zenin—least of all Megumi himself.

Now, Megumi looked down at the curve of his stomach, and placed his hand over it, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Gojo-san’s nothing like Sukuna, I can promise you that much. And I’d never marry him in a million years.”

Yuji grinned, playful. “Gee, thanks.”

Megumi shot him a wry grin of his own in return. “But you and I are different. And I think he might surprise you. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Don’t you hate him?” Yuji couldn’t help but ask, unable to ignore the issue any longer. “After what he did to your father, I mean.” The circumstances of Fushiguro Toji’s death were no secret to anyone, amongst the four great clans. Slaughtered on Gojo land for no other reason, apparently, than to prove a point.

The smile faded from Megumi’s face, as he seemed to consider that statement for a long time. Yuji wondered what manner of memories Megumi held for his father. He wondered if they had ever been close enough that Megumi missed him, now. It wasn’t something they ever talked about, if his friend could help it.

Finally, he said, “My father wasn’t a good person, and we were never close. Death was always going to find him, sooner or later. It’s just coincidence, that it was Gojo-san who finally finished the job. But it’s like I said—” He reached out, and closed his hand around Yuji’s—folding Yuji’s fingers around the wolf carving, in the process. “I’d never marry him. A marriage between he and I would spell nothing but disaster, I’m certain. But that doesn’t have to be the case for you.”

“Young master,” Uraume called then, in a tone of complete and utter exasperation. “We absolutely must go, now. If you please.” The last part added, as Uraume no doubt remembered whom they were addressing, and whom else would soon found out if they spoke out of turn.

Megumi rolled his eyes, and seemed about to say something back when Yuji shook his head, his remaining hand closing warm around Megumi’s own, for just a brief moment.

“Thank you for the gift,” he told him, and he hoped he was only imagining the way his voice trembled, slightly, with emotion at the words. “I’ll keep it close.” A pause. “Megumi.”

His friend smiled for real then, and shoved him playfully away, towards his waiting carriage.

“You’d better,” he called, as Yuji started to turn. “I’ll know if you don’t!”

Yuji laughed, and waved at him as he turned properly, now, and headed for the carriage. Uraume was glaring at him with nothing short of ill will, while Junpei, at the other side of the carriage doors, smiled fondly and perhaps just a little anxiously, at Uraume’s ire. Choso, astride his horse, only gazed down at Yuji with faint amusement, before shifting his eyes forward as the party readied itself to depart.

The sun was properly in the sky now, and once Yuji had situated himself comfortably within the confines of his carriage, he glanced out the window to see Megumi watching as the coachman flicked his whip, and they started to move.

As their gazes met, Megumi waved one last time, and Yuji returned it with a smile.

It seemed fitting, he would find himself thinking later, that that was his last view of Sukuna’s estate—with Megumi’s slim, shadowed figure standing stark in the foreground. Yuji’s friend, who had become so familiar within the walls of his home, these last few months, that it was like it had never been whole before without him.

Yuji craned his neck and watched Megumi’s silhouette shrink further and further as the carriage gained distance. “Are you a dog?” Uraume asked, but Yuji ignored them.

When they finally turned a corner, at the bottom of the hill the estate was built onto, and Yuji couldn’t see Megumi at all anymore, he looked down at the wolf again and ran his thumb across its smooth, carved flank.

Protection. Loyalty. Family.

To Yuji’s embarrassment, a tear spilled over, hitting the wolf as he thought more on their final words to each other.

I’ll keep it close.

You’d better.

Despite himself, Yuji gave a weak, teary chuckle, and hastily wiped a hand across his eyes. Beside him, Junpei politely averted his gaze, and across from him, Uraume far less tactfully did the same. But Yuji didn’t pay them any mind.

I’ll keep it close, he thought, determined. I promise.

I won’t ever let it go.

--*--

Weeks later, the carved wolf tucked safely within the folds of his elaborate kimono, Yuji makes his way, determined, through the central household of the Gojo estate. Towards the ceremonial hall within, where his wedding is to take place. Walking beside him, Junpei shuffles surreptitiously closer, and whispers, “Remember to keep your arm in place, there.”

Yuji nods. In the end, no matter how hard they scrubbed, he and Junpei couldn’t get the wine stain out. With only minutes left to spare before the Gojo family guard arrived to escort them to the hall, they made a split second decision.

Yuji will just have to conceal the stain until the end of the night.

Around them, there’s a slowing of the guards, and then after a moment they stop and part to either side to reveal an enormous set of doors. Before them stands Uraume, a faintly bored expression on their face that quickly shifts into a scowl as their gaze meets Yuji’s.

“You certainly took your time,” they mutter, and beckon him closer. With an assessing glance to the tall, imposing looking guards to either side of him—all beta, he notes, with no small amount of relief—Yuji obeys, and walks forward to meet Uraume at the doors. Junpei and Choso accompany him, one of his closest friends on each side.

Beyond the thin paper of the doors, he can hear faint murmurings from within and, despite his resolve, the sound alights the nerves within him like nothing else that’s happened so far this evening.

This is real, he realizes, thankful for his hood, and the way that it conceals most of his face as it pales with anxiety. Those are real people in there.

Gojo Satoru is in there, and I’m about to—

Marry him.

Yuji gulps, audibly, and hopes that no one notices. He sends a silent thanks to the Gods that everyone here with him now is either a beta or his dearest friend, and so no one will hold the way his scent pulses furiously with fear against him.

“All right,” he croaks, and clears his throat. “All right, I suppose we should go in.”

Uraume nods, and gestures to one of the guards to slide open the doors.

“Actually, wait,” they say, and Yuji looks at them, confused.

To his surprise, Uraume turns their attention not to him, but to Junpei.

“The staff need assistance in the kitchens,” they tell him, and wave their hand in dismissal. “You’re free to go.”

Yuji blinks at them in disbelief, that quickly coalesces into outrage as he properly comprehends what they’re saying. Beside him, Junpei is staring at the ground, cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment.

“Junpei isn’t staff,” Yuji says hotly. Around him, he can feel his scent flicker with anger, and he quietly hopes it doesn’t travel through the thin paper of the doors as he continues. “He’s here as my guest. My friend.”

Uraume cocks a single, cold eyebrow. “Much as it would amuse me to see you explain so to the Gojo family elders, I ask that you save it for another time.” They turn to Junpei again. “Well? Go on, then, Yoshino. That’s an order.”

Junpei looks up, but before he can answer, Yuji steps in, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Who are you, to give him an order? If I say he stays, then he stays, and you can’t—"

Uraume cuts him off. “Sukuna-sama told me you would be difficult,” they say, bringing a hand up to rub at their temple as though managing a particularly challenging headache. “And he instructed me to respond with the following.”

Yuji opens his mouth, ready to say out loud exactly what he thinks of his brother’s instruction, but before he can say a word there’s a flash of movement and the stinging, striking heat of a back-handed slap across his face.

An unease descends, upon the guards around them, as all of them attempt to exude an air of having not just witnessed such an obvious act of violence against their master’s betrothed. At Yuji’s left, Choso visibly bristles, a deep scowl descending upon his features, and to his right, he feels Junpei’s hand, gentle and concerned, come to rest on his shoulder.

Yuji, for his part, recovers quickly. In truth, compared to the brute force of his brother’s fists, Uraume’s slap is feather-light in comparison. He doubts it’ll even leave a mark.

His pride smarts, far more than his skin.

“Itadori-san,” Junpei says, hushed, as his gaze darts nervously around them. “It’s all right. The ceremony is usually just for family, anyway.” At Yuji’s crestfallen expression, he continues, “I’ll be at the feast afterwards, for certain.”

“But…” Yuji frowns. You are family, he wants to say, but it’s not quite true, is it? Much as Yuji hates Uraume, in this moment, he can’t argue with the fact that they’re right. To the people behind the thin, paper door before him—the Gojo family, the council of elders, the leaders of Japan’s most powerful clans, and no doubt Gojo Satoru himself—Yuji’s friends are nothing more than servants below their notice.

And so, “Fine,” Yuji says, resigned. “I’ll just see you after, then.”

Junpei seems to breathe a quiet sigh of relief as, around them, there’s a notable easing of anxiety amongst the Gojo guards. Relieved, no doubt, that the disagreement didn’t escalate, putting them in the awkward position of having to break up a fight between two members of a household that isn’t even theirs.

“Not sending me to the kitchens, too?” Choso intones, eyes dark and admonishing on Uraume’s own.

Uraume glares stubbornly up at him. “You’re here as Itadori’s guard. If he fails tonight, he may yet have need of you, before the night is over.”

Choso scowls, and shifts a little bit closer to Yuji as Yuji, flustered, says his goodbyes to Junpei.

“Remember everything I told you,” Junpei tells him, hushed, as Uraume, apparently satisfied there are no more objections, gestures again for a pair of guards to come forward and open the doors. “About the ceremony.”

Yuji nods, mentally running through all of the intricate rituals of the traditional Eastern wedding that Junpei’s spent the last three weeks going through with him on the journey over. He’s vague still on a number of details, but he’s determined not to forget a single step—he still needs to make a good impression on his mate, after all, even if the ceremony isn’t to go as he’d hoped.

Assured that Yuji will be all right, or at least as all right as he can be, given the circumstances, Junpei bows hastily, and takes his leave. Yuji watches him go, a tightness in his chest that reminds him a little of the day he said goodbye to Megumi. He doesn’t have much longer to dwell on it, though, before the doors before him slide open and Yuji turns, at last, to face his fate.

--*--

From his position seated atop a raised dais at the opposite end of the room, head resting on his hand in an artful slouch that no doubt has his handlers in a state of apoplexy, Gojo Satoru lays eyes on the face of his new bride for the very first time.

And the first thing he thinks, exactly, is—

This is never going to work.

On the surface, of course, it’s a fine face. Handsome, even, despite being partly obscured by that bothersome hood. High cheekbones, a straight nose and a strong, angular jaw. A clear dimple, in each cheek, and a complexion gently darkened by a life spent beneath the sun.

But the issue isn’t any one of the boy’s individual features, in particular. No, the issue is the sum of his parts. The issue is his appearance as a whole. The issue, Satoru reflects, is that Itadori Yuji looks exactly like his elder brother, Ryomen Sukuna.

Surely, Sukuna is aware of this. Perhaps he thought it some final jest—some last, cruel insult, to throw in Satoru’s face. Surely, he knew: Satoru would sooner gnaw his own arm off than have to stare into the face of his enemy every night while performing the duties required of him as an alpha and husband to his mate.

Yet still, here he is. About to bind himself into a lifetime of doing exactly that. The thought puts him in a dark mood—darker, even, than the one he was already in—and he feels a scowl forming on his face even as his bride steps forward. Steps further into the room in short, careful steps, his gaze pointed stubbornly downwards.

When he reaches the edge of the dais, the boy’s eyes flick upwards.

And Satoru’s head empties of all thought, bar one:

He doesn’t look like Sukuna at all.

Satoru’s only had the displeasure of beholding Ryomen Sukuna three times, in the half-decade they’ve been at war. Among those three, only one—the most recent—was up close, and not within the context of a vicious, bloodied clash of Satoru’s army against his.

But as little as he’s seen the man, he remembers his image well. And of his image, he remembers one aspect in particular above all the others.

The eyes. A deep, vile blood red, burning with cruelty, malice, and all manner of qualities violent enough to make any man throw himself to the ground in supplication, right there on the spot.

Well, not any man. Certainly not Satoru, no doubt to Sukuna’s endless chagrin.

Itadori Yuji’s eyes are nothing like his brother’s. Instead of the red Satoru expected, the boy beholds him with a gaze of rich, molten gold. There’s a warmth in them that catches Satoru completely off-guard; a sweet, burning sincerity that triggers a double-take; a feeling much akin to missing a step on his way down a flight of stairs. It catches Satoru so off-guard, in fact, that his own eyes widen, just a little, with interest, as they meet Itadori’s—gold on blue, blue on gold—and to his immense shock, he feels his heartbeat quicken, somewhere deep within the hollow chamber of his chest.

Their gazes hold for a series of long seconds before the boy hastily averts his eyes to the floor again, and bows down into a kneeling position. His personal guard—that Kamo beta, from earlier—remains standing, behind and slightly to the left of him, but Satoru pays the disrespect no notice.

For now, his attention is for Itadori Yuji, only.

As Satoru watches, the boy lowers himself completely, so that his forehead near touches the floor. The move leaves the back of his neck vulnerable—a show of deference, both to Satoru and the room at large.

“My lord, Gojo-sama,” he says, his voice ringing out clear and true in the silence of the ceremonial chamber. “You honour me with your hospitality.” His voice is young and boyish, befitting of his age and station, and Satoru doesn’t miss the faint hint of one of the rougher, rural dialects of the West.

With the ritual supplication there comes, too, the soothing sweet scent of the omega’s pheromones, all in a rush. Satoru sensed them already, of course; sensed the fresh orange-blossom scent of them when the boy was just outside the room. Felt curious, even, as to the way they emphatically surged and then settled, in the moments before the doors opened.

But this is an altogether stronger and more intentional surge, as to be expected of an omega in a dangerous situation. The boy’s pheromones pour out of him in a vast, soothing wave that aims, Satoru is sure, to calm the intimidating alpha before him. To calm, to placate, and—

To nullify the threat, Satoru thinks, a bitter twist forming across his mouth. How foolish of him, to let himself forget.

Itadori Yuji and Gojo Satoru are enemies.

No matter how lovely his eyes may be.

He lets Itadori hold the position for a beat or two longer than is customary—hears the distant titters of his handlers in the background as they grow restless at the break from ceremony. Well, Satoru thinks, they’re about to get a Hell of a lot more of a break than they bargained for.

Itadori is perfectly on script. He’s lowered himself and paid his proper respects, to his prospective alpha. Bared his neck to Satoru’s mercy for all the room to witness. So the ceremony goes, Satoru is to follow this with his own declaration along those lines—a statement of welcome, a compliment on the sweetness of his bride’s scent and countenance, an offer to share his hearth and home…

Some nonsense, along those lines.

Abruptly, Satoru stands. To either side of him the tittering escalates into a blatant murmur—of confusion, frustration, anxiety, he doesn’t care. He keeps his eyes on Itadori, who still has his eyes on the floor, though there’s a clear tension in both his scent and his frame that conveys that he’s aware, both of Satoru’s movement and of Satoru’s attention.

Gracefully, and aided in no small part by his not inconsiderable height, Satoru steps down from the dais so that he can stand directly before his bride. His feet are now mere inches from the boy’s head as, slowly, Itadori turns his face upwards again, and looks at him with open puzzlement writ across his young face.

“Get up,” Satoru says bluntly. When Itadori just stares at him, Satoru continues, “Come on. We’re here to get married, aren’t we?”

Itadori stares at him, his brows coming together in a frown, then glances away. Satoru watches as Itadori's gaze flickers nervously to either side of them, at the ceremonial spectators, and as he seems to take in the obvious unrest at Satoru's blatant disregard for their customs.

"But..." the boy says faintly, at last. He looks over his shoulder, at his Kamo guard, but must immediately feel the way Satoru's scent flickers with irritation, as his and the guard's gazes meet for barely a moment before he hastily turns back—his focus first on Satoru, and then again on the floor beneath them.

"I—I'm sorry, my lord. It's just...I thought—" Itadori pauses, and Satoru notes, with interest, a faint blush settling across his cheeks. And then he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter." He bows his head, low, and Satoru frowns. He's about to remind his bride that he ordered him to rise a full minute ago, now, but is saved the hassle when Itadori finally gathers the folds of his kimono around him and stands back up again. 

He's considerably less poised about it, than Satoru was. He keeps his arms held stuff and awkward in front of him, as though to shield the shape of his body from Satoru’s gaze, and Satoru fights the urge to scoff at him. You’d do well to let go of that modesty now, he thinks but, uncharacteristically diplomatic, chooses not to comment out loud.

A moment passes in quiet contemplation, as they regard each other once more. Prince and commoner. Alpha and omega. A groom, and his bride.

And by night’s end, Satoru remembers, we'll be all that and more, too.

The thought triggers an uneasy whirl, in the pit of Satoru's stomach, but he swallows it down. Stands up straighter, taller, despite the fact that he's already well over a head taller than Itadori already, and looks over the boy's head, towards the wedding party.

"Right," Satoru says. "Let’s get this over with.”

--*--

Itadori Yuji had, of course, heard tales of Gojo Satoru's good looks, and he liked to think he knew what to expect. He's been hearing about them for weeks now, after all, from near every person from the East who's crossed his path—whether it be the dreamy, envious sigh of a maid, the ribald remark of a retainer or the flat statement of fact made by his brother's mate, all the way back on the other side of the country.

He's very...attractive, Megumi allowed, one evening, a week into the announcement of Yuji's betrothal. His own handsome face twisted into a scowl of distaste as he continued, And he knows it. But don't let him think that you know it, all right? It'll make him insufferable.

Yuji nodded, and filed his friend's advice away even as, privately, he thought that there was no way anyone could be that attractive. That even if someone were to be so beautiful, it surely wouldn't make the slightest difference to Yuji. That when the time came, he would be ready—that he would even perhaps be a little underwhelmed, upon perceiving his future mate for the first time. After all, there was no way that the man’s beauty could truly be so overwhelming as everyone said. 

Yuji was wrong.

Gojo Satoru is far beyond just beautiful. He’s breathtaking.

At the first sight of him, looking up from the foot of the dais, Yuji is struck dumb. His groom sits there at the head of the room, the vision of a God gracing humanity with his presence, dressed in a richly layered red, black and deep indigo kimono that looks even more expensive than Yuji’s. His soft white hair falls delicately across the pale, pure unblemished skin of his forehead, and he looks down on Yuji through iridescent blue eyes unlike any Yuji’s ever seen. Eyes that must easily contain a thousand different shades of blue, all at once. Eyes that seem to pierce through Yuji’s very being.

And that’s to say nothing of the strength of his scent. His pheromones. Yuji breathes them in, when they are within scenting distance of each other, and finds himself thinking of the sea—of vast, dark ocean waves crashing against the sand in early winter morning, enormous, impenetrable, mesmerising.

Dangerous.

For a long moment—perhaps too long, if the sudden nervous spike of Ijichi’s energy radiating from the corner is anything to go by—Yuji holds his groom's gaze, transfixed. Captivated.

And for just the space of that moment, he swears he recognises in those blue eyes a matching interest. A matching captivation, even, that makes Yuji’s heart skip and his face flush as he abruptly remembers his place, and quickly averts his eyes to the floor.

He says his part, and Gojo, well. Gojo is certainly…unorthodox, in a way Yuji really should have expected, but he says enough, and the ceremony begins in earnest.

A Gojo family elder—an ancient beta Yuji swears could easily be over a hundred years old—steps forward to perform the marriage rites, and bless the union on behalf of the Gods. His voice croaks, weak and feeble, like worn leather, and with a queer mix of reluctance and relief, Yuji shifts his attention. No doubt he’ll have plenty of time to stare at his groom later. For now, he must focus on the wedding that binds them. In his head, he wracks his brain to remember Junpei's instructions on what to do, when to do it and how, exactly, it must be done. 

When the Gojo heir stands before you and welcomes you formally into his home, avert your gaze. When he stands beside you and addresses the wedding party, keep your eyes forward as he does. If he moves to kneel in supplication, before the Gods, make sure your knees hit the ground first.

All things considered, Yuji thinks he manages okay, though as the ceremony drags on he has to make increasingly more awkward efforts to conceal the wine stain at his hip without giving away to the wedding party—and more importantly, his groom—that anything is amiss.

Luckily for Yuji, Gojo Satoru doesn’t seem to look too closely. In fact, he hardly looks at Yuji at all. Yuji supposes he should be relieved, but he can’t help a faint sting of insecurity all the same as he wonders, anxiously, if he might have done something wrong.

You have to keep him happy, utters a cold, harsh voice inside his head. The unmistakable voice of his brother, Sukuna. You can’t afford to fail.

Gojo’s scent offers no help. Yuji tries, with as much subtlety as he can manage, to interpret the roar of his groom’s overpowering scent for any sign of the alpha’s deeper thoughts and feelings, and finds nothing beyond the faintest sense of—

Boredom?

If Yuji weren’t so nervous, he’d want to laugh. How strange, that Gojo Satoru—the great lord alpha of the East and bane of all who oppose him—could be capable of so mundane an emotion as boredom, in the middle of his own wedding.

Yuji’s envious. He wishes his own nerves would settle enough to let him feel bored, too.

At last, the time comes for their final vows. Alpha and omega must offer themselves, and each accept the other. If they both accept, then the marriage is all but confirmed, and they may drink from their shared cup of wine, give thanks to their matchmakers, and declare themselves wedded before the witness of their family and retainers.

It’s both a relief and its own kind of terrifying, for Yuji. On one hand, the ceremony will very soon be over. On the other, he knows that he and Gojo now stand on the cliff’s edge of their commitment—to the marriage, to the alliance, to each other—and Gojo could still very well say No.

Yuji spares an anxious glance over his shoulder at Choso, who’s keeping as respectful a distance as possible behind him. Choso gives him a soft, encouraging nod—You’re almost there—and Yuji flashes him a quick, grateful smile. He turns back to face his groom and catches only the briefest sight of Gojo’s eyes, crystal blue and focussed, intent, upon Yuji’s own, before he ducks his head. There’s no time to try and discern what manner of emotion he finds there in his groom’s cool, calculating gaze, but at the very least Yuji is mostly certain it isn’t anger.

A hush descends, around them, and Yuji takes in a deep breath and waits for Gojo to speak. The groom is to offer himself first, as is customary.

“Itadori Yuji,” Gojo says, and Yuji shivers, slightly, at the sound of his name in the commanding tones of such an alpha. “Omega, and brother of Ryomen Sukuna. I offer myself to you. My home, my protection, and my mark. In this life and the next. Do you accept?”

“Yes,” Yuji says immediately, then winces at his accidental break in formality. “I accept,” he corrects, and bows low at the hips, in the traditional manner.

A tension builds all across the room, and Yuji’s heart quickens—knowing, as the rest of them do, that only one step remains before the marriage is confirmed. Keeping his bow low and his eyes on the floor, Yuji utters out loud the words that have been drilled relentlessly into his head for weeks now. This time, he doesn’t stumble. And how could he? At this point it's like flexing a well-practised muscle.

“Gojo Satoru-sama,” he says, internally cringing as his voice blares out, loud, in the stillness of the room. “Great alpha of the Gojo clan. To you, I offer myself. My loyalty. My fidelity, and—” The slightest pause, and Yuji blushes, offering the final words, “My body. Forever in this life, and then the next. Do you accept?”

Silence.

Yuji’s heart races in his chest, blood pumping so fiercely in his veins he can hear the roar of it in his ears as he holds his breath, anticipating.

If Gojo says No, will he still honour the peace between their clans?

If he says No, will Yuji be allowed to go home? Or will he be held hostage here?

What if that was the plan from the start?

What if he doesn’t bother with keeping Yuji hostage and just kills him, instead?

What if—

“I accept,” Gojo says, his voice low but clear, so much so that it carries throughout the whole of the hall.

Realisation hits, and Yuji’s breath leaves him in an uncontained gasp as his eyes fall closed with pure relief.

He accepts.

It’s done, then.

It seems Yuji isn’t alone, in his relief, as an audible break in tension travels in waves across their hall of witnesses.

“Ijichi,” calls the wizened elder, from before. “Bring the wine forward.”

Feeling as if a thousand weights have been lifted from off of his shoulders, Yuji straightens. He can't keep the relieved grin off of his face as he flicks his gaze upwards in silent thanks to the Gods, and then back to his groom. His husband.

Gojo regards him with an unreadable expression, his eyes shrewdly narrowed. “You seem surprised,” he says, when he catches Yuji’s gaze. “Did you expect me to say no?” When Yuji doesn’t immediately respond, he continues, “Are you really so doubtful of my intentions?”

And then, for the first time since Yuji walked in, his future mate smiles. But it’s not a true smile. If anything, Yuji reflects, it’s really more of a smirk. A smirk devoid of all warmth and good humour.

“Well. I suppose you’re still his brother, after all.”

He looks away.

Yuji’s heart drops, and the smile falls from his face. He opens his mouth to respond, but even if he had any idea what to say, he doesn’t get a chance. Before he knows it there’s a faint murmur from the wedding party behind him, and Ijichi steps forward into the sudden vast space that’s opened up between the Gojo heir and his bride.

“T-The matrimonial wine, Gojo-sama,” Ijichi says, and hands his master an ancient cup of weathered stoneware, filled near to the brim with rich, dark wine.

Yuji watches as Gojo takes it, seems to consider the contents for a brief moment, then with no small amount of distaste, brings it to his lips. He drinks down only a mouthful, maybe two, and then lowers the cup once more. Keeps hold of it in one hand as he wipes the back of the other across his mouth in a gesture so ill-befitting, Yuji thinks, of a lord.

Strangely, it soothes Yuji's heart to see.

"Well," Gojo says, then, "I suppose I'd better give thanks." He raises his cup to the crowd around them, and addresses the room at large. "To our matchmakers! My Grandmother, and Grandfather." This with a nod towards a couple of elder Gojo family members, towards the edge of the hall.

He continues, gesturing now at a wide swathe of the audience, at the very centre. "My aunts, uncles, and honoured cousins! I'd name and thank each of you, but I'm afraid I've lost count of quite how many of you there are." An irritated titter, from the crowd, and Yuji holds back a grimace. He wonders if his groom is aware of how rude such a statement could be taken, and then remembers whom he's dealing with.

Of course he's aware. He's doing it on purpose.

"And finally," Gojo calls, and here turns his head back to face Yuji, "I must thank the great Warlord of the West, Ryomen Sukuna, for the offer of his own baby brother as a bride."

The crowd erupts in a series of whispers, and Yuji feels his face heat, but he fights the temptation to avert his gaze from Gojo's. They’re married now, and he'll have to learn to face his husband sooner or later.

Besides, this last statement of thanks should be the end of it, and Yuji waits expectantly for Gojo to reach out and hand the cup to him, so that he may declare his own gratitude before the wedding party.

But Gojo isn't finished.

"It's only a shame," he says, and ensures his voice carries, his gaze never leaving Yuji's, "that Sukuna is too busy defiling his own bride to be here to watch as I defile mine."

The whispers rise to a full-blown, furious hiss, but Gojo pays them no notice. He holds the cup out at last, for Yuji to take.

Behind him Yuji senses a surge in Choso's beta pheromones—usually so muted, near imperceptible, but now teeming with untethered, indignant rage. A rage Yuji has no doubt is mirrored in his own scent, at this very moment, as he reaches out, hands shaking, and takes the cup from his future mate's hand. Their fingers brush, slightly, but Yuji hardly feels it. 

He takes the cup. He drinks. There's an overripe, tart flavour to the wine that near burns his throat as he swallows.

"I give thanks," he rasps, then clears his throat. "I give thanks," he repeats, more clearly, though he doesn't bother raising his voice. He has no doubt their audience hears every word, anyway. But for now, Yuji speaks to Gojo Satoru, and Gojo Satoru alone. 

"To my brother. To the esteemed elders of the Gojo clan. And to my husband." Holding Gojo's gaze he raises the cup, and watches as the lord's eyes widen at the sudden break in script.

So it's okay when you do it, Yuji thinks bitterly, but not me?

In his mind, he hears Fushiguro Megumi's voice.

I think he might be good for you.

The wolf carving weighs heavy, deep in the confines of Yuji's wedding kimono, and Yuji is grateful for the small comfort of its presence.

I think he might surprise you.

"Thank you, Gojo-sama," Yuji says, his voice cold.

I'm sorry, Megumi, he thinks. But you were wrong.

"You are every inch the alpha I expected you would be."

--*--

There’s a brief period of relief, after the ceremony and before the wedding feast, where Satoru retreats to his private study for some much needed peace rather than spend a minute longer with his unhappy bride or his unhappier relatives.

Unfortunately, his narrow window of peace abruptly shatters when Suguru bursts into the room like a hurricane. 

"I've half a mind to take my sandal off and beat you with it," he snaps, eyes alight with black fury as his scent surges with impending wrath, enough to send omega and beta alike scurrying in fear.

Satoru scoffs, rendered fearless by his own foul mood, and turns back away from the door. "I see word travels fast. Who are you, my mother?"

"Your mother," Suguru says, "is rolling in her grave, to see her son behave so."

Satoru scowls. "Never thought I'd see the day when you and her were of one mind," he mutters, and then flinches, alarmed, at the sudden strong grip of his friend's hand as it lands on his shoulder and turns him forcibly in his seat so they're facing each other again.

"Satoru," Suguru says, his tone pitched severe and strong, like the alpha he sometimes likes to remind Satoru that he is. His expression is twisted into a fierce mix of anger and concern. "What were you thinking, saying such a thing to Itadori-kun? Bad enough you insulted him and his brother so, but did you have to do it in front of your whole family?"

"He was looking down on me," Satoru snaps, roughly brushing Suguru's hand away.

Suguru laughs, derisive. "'Looking down'? He's near half your height."

"You know what I mean," Satoru says. "He walked into that room expecting a cruel bastard, so I gave him one."

Suguru just stares at him, unimpressed, and Satoru bristles, pheromones flaring as he rises now to stand before his friend—the only person he knows who can almost match him in height. "Why are you so concerned all of a sudden, huh? What business is it of yours if Itadori's feelings are hurt?"

"It's not Itadori's feelings I'm concerned with!" Suguru yells, as it seems Satoru has finally pushed him to the end of his rope. "It's yours, Satoru."

Satoru stills, and falls quiet. 

Suguru sighs, his alpha pheromones receding as he brings a hand up and rubs, tired, at his left temple. "Please understand. This boy is to be your mate. Your family. He'll walk beside you every day and lie beside you every night. And once the bond settles, he'll stand beside you in your heart, too. No one in the world will ever be as close to you."

Satoru opens his mouth to disagree, but Suguru holds up a hand to stop him. "No, not even me. You know, Satoru. You know that it's different."

A long, pointed silence, as they look at each other with a million words unspoken between them, and then, "I know," Satoru says.

"It's important, then," Suguru says, after a moment, "that you two respect each other. If he doesn't respect you, then what's to stop him from agreeing to help the first assassin that crosses his path, looking for a chance to kill the realm’s strongest alpha?”

Satoru can't muster up a response to that, and Suguru carries on. "At the very least, for now, you need to trust each other. And do tell me, Satoru: how do you expect Itadori-kun to trust you, after you've just humiliated him in front of the entire clan?"

“Ugh ." Satoru can’t stop the defeated tone from bleeding into his voice, as he speaks. “You're right. Okay? You’re right, I know I shouldn’t have said it, I just…”

He brings his own hand up and grinds his thumb, agitated, against the space between his brows. “I can’t keep this bitterness out of my heart, Suguru.”

Suguru huffs. “Satoru, you must —"

“I know that,” Satoru cuts him off. “I know that I must, and that’s what makes me angry. I should have ended this war a victor. I would have, and yet here I stand before a bride who loathes and fears me, acting out some perverse play of love, sex and matrimony for Ryomen Sukuna’s amusement.”

A pause, and he glances up to see Suguru watching him, expression cool but not uncaring. And certainly not angry, anymore. "He may fear you," Suguru says, slowly. "But I don't think he loathes you, to be fair. Not quite."

Satoru huffs a dour laugh. "At the very least, he certainly doesn't  like  me." He sighs, heart heavy. "And in any case,” he says, “if my mission this evening was to win Itadori Yuji’s trust, then I’ve clearly failed. If anything, I've lost it utterly.”

Suguru hums, considering. "Well," he says, "lucky for you, I've got a plan in mind to win it back." At the questioning raise of Satoru's eyebrows, he only smirks, sly, and turns to the door.

"You can come in, now," he calls, and Satoru follows his eyeline as the door slides open, revealing—

Satoru squints at the young woman as she steps inside, her eyes fixed determinedly downwards and her hands clasped nervously in front of her. He can tell at a glance by the plain, inexpensive grey of her kimono and the scarf in her hair that she's one of the many maids that service his household. Among the more slovenly ones, too, if the unwashed splatters of wine across the hem of her kimono are anything to go by. 

"Who's this?" Satoru asks, turning to Suguru for an answer.

Suguru shoots him a glance—a perfect mix of exasperated and amused that is quite uniquely Suguru's—and then flicks his gaze back to the girl. "This is Sato Mitsuri." He adds, pointedly, "She's worked for the Gojo clan since infancy."

Satoru nods thoughtfully, though he's never heard her name before in his life.

No doubt fully aware of this, Suguru continues. "There was a small commotion earlier, outside the doors of the wedding hall. Do you remember? It was right before the ceremony, or so I'm told."

Satoru frowns, dubious, and casts his mind back over the last couple of hours. The only commotion he can reliably remember right now is the one he caused himself, at the very end of the wedding. Except—

Oh , he thinks, as a memory flickers to the forefront of his consciousness. The sense memory of a sharp, sudden, agitated spike in a then-unfamiliar orange-blossom scent. The first time he scented such a spike, in his future mate, and he had wondered about it, hadn't he?

Had he himself not been responsible for a far more blatant spike of anger, later in the ceremony, he might have thought to investigate it further. As it was, he soon had other things on his mind.

"I remember," he says now, and Suguru nods. 

"I happened to speak with Sato-san, earlier," he tells Satoru, "while you were busy sticking your foot in your mouth. And as it turns out, she witnessed the incident firsthand." He pauses. "I think you'll be quite interested, to hear what she has to say."

"Oh?" Satoru asks, and directs his full attention to the girl. "Speak, then," he tells her, perhaps a tad sharper than necessary as she seems to visibly shrink beneath his gaze, eyes doggedly avoiding his. It's to be expected, by someone of her rank, but after the night Satoru's had, it's irritating all the same.

"Tell me exactly what you saw."

Chapter Text

Yuji just wants to be left alone, after the ceremony.

With the declarations of thanks over, he grits his teeth and endures all that follows. The confirmation of the marriage before the esteemed members of the council and the Gojo clan. The procession of well-wishers that line up before him and his husband, false smiles etched into their faces as they offer their salutations, their congratulations and their gifts.

And of course, through it all, Yuji endures the most trying challenge of all: Gojo Satoru himself, standing right beside him. By sheer force of will, Yuji smothers the indignant rage that still simmers within him, at Gojo's slight, and hopes he manages to exude an air of benign calm even as, deep inside, he's anything but.

Behind them, Choso is not nearly so successful. When Yuji chances a glance in his sworn guard's direction, it's to see him glaring open daggers at Yuji's husband, and it's only after a sharp look from Yuji that he makes a visible effort to mask it.

It's all right , Yuji wants to tell him. Will tell him, as soon as he wins a spare moment for himself away from this farce of a ceremony. Everything is going to be all right.

Inside Yuji's mind, he hears Gojo's words play out over and over again.

It's only a shame that Sukuna is too busy defiling his own bride, to be here to watch as I defile mine.

Ill enough that he had the audacity to publicly deride Sukuna—and Megumi, too—with his comment, but try as Yuji might, he can't quite figure out why Gojo would say such a thing about him , too. Why he would say such a thing about them both.

Is that truly how he sees it? Yuji wonders, as the line of well-wishers diminishes at last into only a dozen or so people more. Does he expect to defile me?

Yuji suppresses a shudder. He doesn't want to believe it, but he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Clearly, Yuji was wrong to let himself think there might be a chance at anything other than duty, between him and his husband.

But it's fine. Yuji has already resigned himself to the indignity of their consummation. He has no delusional expectations of romance, of sublime pleasure or enjoyment in line with the hushed whispered accounts of his already mated friends. This isn't a marriage of the heart between two star-crossed lovers—it's a contract, an agreement, an exchange. Yuji gives, his husband takes, a child is born and peace flourishes throughout the realm. Yuji and Gojo's actual feelings for each other are, in the grand scheme of things, irrelevant.

You are every inch the alpha I expected you would be.

Yuji knows he shouldn't have said anything, in answer. Knows that he should have simply followed his script like a good little omega, bowing his head and baring his neck for the man he must now call his alpha, no matter how rude or callous or cruel that man may be. He knows that Uraume was watching his every action like a hawk, for the duration of the ceremony, and no doubt filing his every mistake away for later, to be reported to Sukuna upon their return to the Western palace. Sukuna, who will of course be furious to learn that Yuji snapped back at his groom, even though Sukuna's own mate disagrees with him every day, easily a dozen times a day.

Yuji can already picture the wrathful tones of Sukuna's letters of admonition in his head. 

You stupid brat. What were you thinking?

Who do you think you are?

You had better hope he doesn't reject you for this, because you'll not be welcome here again if he turns you out.

Yuji swallows, brow furrowing into a frown as, for the last of their audience, he bends into a bow of grateful farewell. 

He knows he shouldn't have said what he said. But he can't bring himself to regret it, either.

Beside him, he can sense Gojo's scent simmering with discontent, and he fights the natural urge to ask if something's wrong.

Of course it is , he reminds himself, frowning deeper. He's just married someone he hates.

"Is something wrong?" 

Yuji jumps, startled at the sound of his husband's voice so suddenly close, and hastily straightens up to find Gojo staring down at him, clearly puzzled. He flushes, embarrassed under the attention of those clear, brilliant blue eyes, and quickly looks away—realising, in the process, that they're all but alone now in this enormous hall, and he really needn't have held his bowing position for quite so long.

"I'm fine," he says after a moment, when he remembers Gojo asked him a question. He can still feel his face flaming, somewhat, and he internally berates himself for being susceptible to his husband's beauty even in spite of what's just happened.

A long pause, during which Gojo Satoru appears to start and stop a sentence no less than three times, before finally settling on, "Well, I suppose we'd better break before the feast, then."

Yuji stiffens, and then nods. "I suppose so," he murmurs, his eyes on the doors through which he walked, hours ago now, as a smattering of servants start to trickle in in order to prepare the hall for the wedding feast, later in the night. Among them, he swears he spots the maid whose wine is still stained across his kimono, and he smiles wryly at the memory, but she's ducked out of his sight before he can catch her eye. 

"I'll arrange an escort," Gojo says suddenly, and then adds when Yuji looks back up at him, confused: "To your chambers and back again, later. The feast won't be for another hour at least."

Yuji cocks his head at him. Is this some type of test?

"That...that won't be necessary, Gojo-sama." He nods to Choso, behind him, who smoothly steps forward to stand at Yuji's back. "I already know the way, and Choso is more than enough protection."

Gojo's eyebrows raise, gaze flicking over Yuji's shoulder, to Choso. No doubt catching sight of the unmistakable contempt in Choso's eyes, he tenses, scent simmering with a burst of anger that Yuji really doesn't have the patience for, right now. 

"I suppose I'll see you for the feast, then," he says, all in a rush and, with one final bow to his husband, turns and races to the exit.

Yuji trusts both that Choso will follow him, and that Gojo will let him go—relieved, no doubt, to be free of his bride's company at last.

He's right on both counts and comforted, by the former.

He tries not to let himself feel so disappointed, by the latter.

--*--

Yuji's respite ends all too soon, and it seems to him that no sooner has he arrived back at his chambers to rest and decompress, after the stifling, stressful ceremony of the wedding itself, that an hour is passed and it's time to make his way back to the hall for the celebratory reception.

The feast is all but ready to begin, and guests are arriving from all over the Eastern kingdoms.

"They can wait, surely," Choso tells Yuji, sliding the door closed on the Gojo clan servant that just delivered the message.

From his position lying flat on his back on the floor, Yuji shakes his head, arm thrown tiredly over his face. "For him , yes," he says, and pulls his arm away, slightly, so he can stare up at the intricate patterns of the ceiling. "But for me? I'd never live it down, Choso. I've got to make—"

"A good impression," Choso finishes, in the long-suffering yet infinitely patient tone of someone who's heard this far too many times now, but loves the person saying it far too much to say anything about it. "Yes, I follow." He takes a moment to regard Yuji, pensive, then says, "Not that Gojo cares about making one on you ."

Yuji snorts, and tips his head back to look at Choso properly, upside down. "I don't even think he cares to make an average impression on me," he admits, and Choso laughs, eyes crinkling with a sweet, familiar warmth as they grin at each other. 

Of all the people in his life that Yuji calls friend , Choso is the one who's borne the title longest. He's been a fixture in Yuji's life almost as long as Sukuna has--the illegitimate son of an unsavoury noble and the nameless woman he dishonoured, eldest of three brothers left to fend for themselves in the slums of the Western capital. Yuji's never heard the full story, but he knows that at some point Choso lost his younger brothers; to violence or disease, Yuji's not quite sure, but it left him bereft of both joy and purpose, and so he sought employ as a mercenary under the command of the burgeoning Warlord that was Ryomen Sukuna, almost a decade prior to now.

And of course, once Choso had secured a place for himself within Sukuna's inner circle, it was only a matter of time before he became a permanent member of Yuji's circle, too. 

The two quickly forged a friendship and ultimately, it was in Yuji's circle that he stayed. Sometimes it feels like Choso is more an older brother to him than Sukuna could ever be. The thought makes Yuji sad, though he can't quite put his finger on why.

Maybe in another life , he thinks, we were brothers.

"Are you ready, then?" Choso asks him now, and Yuji blinks, coming back to himself. He sits up with a groan, and starts to gather his kimono around him so he can stand.

"As I'll ever be," he says, and lets his mouth settle into a line of grim determination. "Do you think Junpei...?"

Choso nods. "He said he'd be at the feast for sure. They probably put him to work in the kitchens, so he hasn't had time to come back here."

"I wonder what he'll say when we tell him what happened," Yuji muses, straightening completely with a cursory look in the mirror to ensure he's still presentable. He catches sight of the stain in his reflection and grimaces. 

As if I don't have enough problems to be getting on with , he thinks. Here I am still having to contend with you.

"Probably exactly what I said," Choso says, and Yuji has to cast his mind back a bit to remember before— Ah.

" Exactly , huh," he says lightly, running his fingers stubbornly through his hair to try and make it look less like he's been lying on the floor for the last hour or so. "Curses, threats and ill wishes upon the entire Gojo family line and all?" Yuji doesn't think he's heard Choso speak so venomously in the entire time they've known each other. 

He's expecting a laugh, so startles when Choso abruptly reaches over, hand closing over Yuji's wrist as he gently tugs it away from his head. "You look fine," he says, voice soothing. Yuji stiffens, then relaxes, letting out a soft sigh of pent up nerves.

"Thank you," he says, shooting his friend a grateful smile. 

Choso returns it, then reaches past him to slide the door open, and the two of them step out into the hallway. Yuji takes in a long, deep breath.

"All right," he says. "Back into the fray, I guess."

--*--

Yuji's second journey to the ceremony hall is far easier than the first was. True to Yuji's request, Gojo doesn't send an escort, though Yuji's pleased when, shortly after having just set foot outside of the guest quarters into the cooling air of the summer evening, he and Choso are rejoined, at last, by two sorely missed members of their party.

"Itadori-san!" Junpei says, face lighting up with relief when he sees—well, that Yuji's still in one piece, presumably. 

Yuji grins himself in answer, and quickly pulls his friend into a hug. "Junpei! What took you so long?"

"I had to bail him out," Kugisaki says wryly, from where she's standing a couple feet to the side. "Otherwise they'd have had him serving food to drunken rich idiots all night."

Yuji pulls away from Junpei, and looks over at her. Her hair, makeup and dress are near immaculate, despite the fact that she's presumably just come here with Junpei from the kitchens, and under the moonlight her green kimono, smooth and pressed as though she only just put it on, almost seems to shine a dark, deep blue.

Against Yuji's will, the image of Gojo Satoru's eyes flashes through his mind, but—

"Thank you," he tells Kugisaki, sincerely meaning it as he mentally flicks away the thought of his husband like an errant fly. 

Kugisaki shrugs, arms crossed and aloof, but Yuji knows her well enough now to know she doesn't go out of her way for just anyone. It was an act of care, for Yuji and for Junpei, too, and he appreciates it whether she means him to or not. 

"Kugisaka-sama told me what happened," Junpei says quietly, then, and Yuji blanches, returning his attention to his other friend. Junpei's scent pulses with anger and his eyes harden, as they meet Yuji's own. "I can't believe the nerve of him. That rude, spoiled, awful piece of—"

"Careful," Choso cuts in, placing a warning hand on Junpei's shoulder. He jerks his head lightly in the direction behind them, and they all turn to see, within hearing distance, a large group of unfamiliar nobles approaching—trailing along the path on their way to the compound's central building.

None of the nobles show any interest in their party, stood quite some way off to the side as they are. Yuji counts eight men, only one of them an alpha, and when he catches the scent of the man's pheromones, he finds it puzzlingly familiar. 

Beside him, Kugisaki scowls. " Zenin," she spits, and adopts a defensive posture.

Yuji's eyes widen in comprehension. Zenin, he thinks, and regards the strange group with more interest. Reflexively, he reaches for the carved wolf inside his kimono and grips it tight. 

The four of them watch in wary silence as the group gets closer, but in the end they needn't have worried. The Zenin pass them by as if they aren't even there. As if they're just another gaggle of party-goers on the street like all the others, and Yuji can smell the tension bleeding out of his friends' frames.

He turns his gaze, curious, to follow the men's backs as they depart, and squints his eyes, breathing in deep to try and parse which amongst the group is the alpha. A natural compulsion, he's been told, amongst untethered omega, and the most efficient way to determine which member of a group is to be feared, revered, or avoided at all costs.

At the very same moment that Yuji figures it out, the alpha turns.

He’s of middling height—taller than Yuji but small, for an alpha, and especially so when compared to the alpha Yuji’s grown familiar with by now. His hair is an odd yellow colour, a stark contrast to the dark hair shared by, as far as Yuji is aware, all members of the Zenin line, but there’s no doubt in Yuji’s mind that he’s Zenin. 

The look in his narrowed green eyes as they meet Yuji’s chills Yuji to the bone, and he feels his hair stand on end as the alpha stares at him a moment, considering, and then slowly smirks. Before Yuji can even begin to comprehend this, he gets a sudden wave of malice in the alpha's scent and he grits his teeth against the acrid stench of it. 

Though his omega instincts compel him to look away, he's abruptly convinced that to do so would endanger himself and all of his friends.

In any case, the strange alpha looks away first, distracted by a tap on the shoulder from one of his own companions. He turns back around and keeps walking, and just like that the unpleasant spell breaks, but Yuji watches him go, wary all the same. 

"Oi, Itadori." Yuji flinches as Kugisaki leans into his eyeline, blocking the Zenin from view. “We’re trying not  to get their attention, remember? Although…” She shoots a feral glare of her own at the Zenin’s back. “Maybe I wouldn’t say no to a fight right now, after all.”

“Me neither,” Choso muses out loud, prompting incredulous stares from Yuji and Junpei both. Amongst the three of them, Choso’s always been the most even-tempered. Seeing their expressions, he cocks an eyebrow. “What? I’m just saying, I’m not feeling all that friendly towards any alpha, right now.”

“No, no,” Junpei cuts in, making a slashing movement with his hand. “Absolutely not. We’ve got enough enemies in this house without you two picking a fight with the Zenin clan.”

Kugisaki pokes her tongue out, pouting. “You’re no fun, Yoshino.” Her mouth slips into a smirk, and she holds her hands out like What’re you gonna do? “And last time I checked you can’t tell me what to do, either.”

Yuji rolls his eyes. “Junpei’s right,” he chimes in, the first words he’s spoken since getting caught in the Zenin alpha’s eyeline. “And last time I checked, I can tell you what to do.” When all three of them turn to gape at him, uncomprehending, he shoots them a playful grin.

“I just married Gojo Satoru,” he reminds them, voice overflowing with cheek. “I outrank everyone here.”

Everyone groans, and Yuji laughs and hopes his friends can’t detect just how false the words taste in his mouth. As far as Gojo Satoru is concerned, he thinks, I probably don’t even outrank his favourite chamber maid. 

Judging by the way Choso’s gaze lingers on him just a touch too long, Yuji suspects begrudgingly that his guard has some inkling of what’s going through his mind. Before he can say anything—and before Yuji can lose himself too deeply in his own self-pity—there’s a sudden burst of raucous laughter from behind them: another group of feast-goers making their way along the path. 

Yuji and his friends are most assuredly very, very late by now. 

He grimaces, glancing up at the sky. It’s well into the night, all traces of sunlight long since gone. Were it not for his improved vision as an omega, he knows he would be struggling to see the features of everyone around him as well as he does in this darkness, even with the chains of paper lanterns that have been strung up either side of the path to light the way. But all the same, he can’t say he feels all that grateful for the gift—he’d trade it in a heartbeat, he thinks, just to be a beta again.

“We’d better go,” he says, trying to keep the resignation out of his voice. Perhaps his friends pick up on his shift in mood, or have even had a shift in their own, because he finds no objections, only a murmur of assent before they move as one, and start making their way up the path. 

Yuji swallows, and fixes his eyes ahead. He’s tried hard this evening, not to think about what awaits him by the night’s end. About what he is to lose—what he is to lose humiliatingly, unfairly, publicly , before an audience of strangers, neutral to him at best and hostile at worst—but also what he is expected to give, as well. 

My loyalty, my fidelity, and my body. Forever in this life, and then the next.

Despite everything, Yuji is still prepared to give everything that he promised. It’s his duty, after all, and he knows with this one small sacrifice he’ll be saving the lives of thousands. 

But he only wonders, after the catastrophe of the wedding ceremony, if Gojo Satoru is truly prepared to offer him everything he promised in return. 

My home, my protection, and my mark. In this life and the next.

–*--

A small crowd of guests have gathered to mingle excitedly at the entrance to the ceremony hall. Yuji’s friends instinctively close ranks around him as they grow nearer, as if to shield him from unfriendly eyes, so Yuji doesn’t get the chance to look at any of the guests themselves too closely, but he spots some familiar clan crests amongst the finery. Todou, Tsukumo, Gakuganji, more Zenin and even Kamo, Choso’s erstwhile clan. Nobles, all of them, but not a single one of them on Gojo’s level—or at least, Yuji suspects that’s how the Gojo clan sees things, judging by the fact that none of them were invited to the ceremony itself. 

It seems that in the East, a wedding is an exclusive, family affair, but a wedding reception is a completely different matter.

Kugisaki glares around at the crowd, hands on her hips; the picture of authority befitting, Yuji supposes, of her own clan’s status.

“Why’s everyone loitering around out here?” she asks, and stands on her tiptoes to try and see over the guests’ heads. “The feast should have started by now.”

Choso cocks an eyebrow, unperturbed. “Maybe Yuji isn’t the only one running late to his own party.” At Yuji’s questioning look, he clarifies, “I just figure it won’t start until Gojo Satoru lets it start, right? So he’s probably—”

“Excuse me,” a young, feminine voice chimes in, a few feet to their right, and as one they all tense, turning to face its source.

“Oh,” Yuji says, recognising her immediately even without the spots of red just faintly visible near the hem of her kimono. A match in hue to the stain he himself bears at his hip, though hardly comparable in size. “Are you all right?” he asks, concerned on the girl’s behalf after having faced her lord himself. “He didn’t bother you about all this, did he?” He gestures at the wine. 

Yuji only just manages to catch how her eyes widen and her cheeks flush pink, at the question, before she hastily looks down. 

“N-no, Itadori-sama,” she says softly, then, “Um—actually, I’m here to escort you, er, inside.” A pause as she glances up, eyes flicking between Yuji’s three companions and then quickly back down again. “Alone.”

“Hah?” Kugisaki asks, face twisted into a sceptical sneer. 

“ Again?” Junpei frets, no doubt recalling the kerfuffle from before the ceremony.

“Where Yuji goes, I go,” Choso says firmly, expression unflinching.

The girl seems to crumble and shrink for a moment under their onslaught, but rouses herself up enough to respond. “Please, I—I’ve been asked by lord Gojo-sama himself, to—to bring Itadori-sama inside, um.” She hesitates. “Un— unencumbered , for— administrative purposes .” 

Administrative purposes? 

The words sound foreign in her mouth, and Yuji feels his heart twinge with pity. It’s clear to him that these words aren’t her own. That she is only repeating them exactly as her lord told her, likely under penalty of some punishment he’s promised to dole out should she fail in doing as he’s asked.

It's only a shame that Sukuna is too busy defiling his own bride, to be here to watch as I defile mine.

If Yuji’s husband is capable of saying such a thing to his own promised mate, then Yuji can only imagine what he’d be willing to say to one of his servants.

Before Yuji’s friends can argue with the poor girl again, Yuji makes his own decision.

“I’m coming,” he says, and steps nimbly out from within his inner circle before any of them has the chance to stop him.

“What?” Kugisaki snaps. 

“What kind of administrative purposes?” Junpei asks, suspicious, and—

“Yuji,” Choso says sternly, as though they’re children again and Choso’s about to tell him he’d better come back up out of that river quickly, now, before he gets washed away and his Choso-nii has to jump in after him.

But Yuji isnt a child anymore. And though Gojo Satoru seems more formidable than even the most raging of rivers in Yuji’s homeland, Yuji doesn’t need Choso to fight his battles for him. 

He turns back, determined expression held firm as he calls, “It’s all right, Choso. Everyone.” He shoots them what he hopes is a confident, reassuring smile. “Just go inside, okay? We already spoke the vows—if Gojo-sama was going to kill me, he would’ve already done it by now, right?” 

And if not, well, Yuji thinks to himself, his expression creeping into something more like a grimace, better I keep my friends out of it. When his friends all open their mouths at once to argue, he cuts them off. “Hey, I’m not some wilting flower.” He holds his right hand up in a fist. “I’m still an Itadori, after all. Even if things go bad, I won’t go down without a fight.”

It’s as much of a reassurance for him as it is for them and, at least for now, it seems to do its job. 

Junpei moves to step forward, face sceptical and omega pheromones bubbling over with trepidation, but Choso holds an arm out to stop him, his eyes not leaving Yuji’s. 

An understanding passes between Yuji and his oldest friend; his brother by everything but blood. An understanding that their lives and their relationship has shifted, since Yuji’s wedding —perhaps even since the announcement of Yuji’s betrothal, months ago—and that Choso can’t protect Yuji, anymore, from everything and everyone that tries to harm him. 

“If you aren’t back in the next half hour,” Choso says, “I’ll come looking for you.” He turns from Yuji, and addresses the serving girl. “Make sure he knows that, too.” Yuji shivers, and none among them need to ask whom Choso means by he. 

The girl flinches but collects herself quickly and nods, then glances warily at Yuji. “Um, well, if you would, Itadori-sama, we had better…” She indicates the path behind her, and starts to move back towards it.

“Yes, of course,” Yuji agrees, and turns to follow her. He sends one last comforting wave over his shoulder at his friends, and tries not to dwell too much on their unhappy expressions. Instead, he shifts his focus to the girl again. “You don’t need to call me Itadori-sama, by the way,” he tells her, aiming for reassuring. “Just Itadori is fine.”

She blanches, looking at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Um,” she squeaks, and then seems completely unable to think of a response. The unfinished exchange drags out and then dies in the air between them, and Yuji decides not to force another one onto her. At least, not for the time being. 

All in all, it’s only a few minutes to their destination anyway. She leads him along a path that seems to wind around the perimeter of the building and then inside, through the back way then down a short, lonely hallway with nothing but empty rooms all along its sides. Unable to stop himself, Yuji peeks into the first few and doesn’t catch anything of note, and he’s about to peer inside the fifth when he catches a scent, at the end of the hallway, that he recognises as Gojo Satoru’s. 

Sure enough, the girl comes to a stop and stands at attention just outside the last room in the hall, and the only one with its door slid shut. 

Rather than open the door right away, the girl calls out, “We’re here, my lady.”

My lady…? Yuji thinks, puzzled. Who else is—? 

And then a woman’s voice, creased as old parchment, responds from behind the thin, paper-thin door.

“Enter.”

The girl nods, as if to herself, and gently slides open the door. At Yuji’s blank look, she gestures quietly for him to walk through. Yuji hesitates, thrown by the unfamiliar voice and the unfamiliar scent of a beta that he’s only now managing to detect beneath his husband’s overpowering alpha presence, but he decides to step inside all the same. If it is an ambush, he’ll just have to fight his way out. Like he promised his friends he would, and like he knows he’s more than capable of doing in a pinch. 

It’s not an ambush—or at least, not one Yuji can fight through—waiting for him in the room, but a long, low table, at the centre of which kneels an elderly woman Yuji doesn’t recognise, and at the head furthest from the door sits—

“Gojo-sama,” Yuji says, keeping his voice carefully neutral as he addresses his husband. “You—”

You summoned me? he’s about to say, but the old woman speaks over him.

“Itadori Yuji,” she says in that same creaking voice from earlier. She gestures to the end of the table closest to the door, where a cushion has been laid out for him to sit. Yuji pauses, momentarily distracted by his husband’s presence but Gojo only sits and regards him plainly, his elbow on the table and chin resting on his palm, a look on his face like he’s not entirely focussed upon the scene before him. He doesn’t seem murderous, and there’s no apparent malice in his scent, but Yuji keeps his guard up just in case.

“If you would please take a seat,” says the woman, in a tone that makes it clear she is not at all asking, please or not. “We need to officiate the marriage contract.”

Yuji, in the process of hastily lowering himself down onto the cushion, blinks at her, confused. “O-officiate…? Didn’t we already do this?” His eyes dart over to Gojo, but he finds no help there—just the same blank, inattentive stare, as though he weren’t the very same person who asked for Yuji to be brought here in the first place.

The old woman huffs, impatient, and slides a stack of papers towards him. “That was all ceremony, boy,” she says. “It’s not official until you sign.”

Yuji’s eyes widen, and he looks down at the papers. Delicately—as if handling some kind of dangerous animal back home—Yuji reaches out and starts to flick through them. He only briefly skims the contents but it’s easily dozens of pages, thousands of words worth of terms and conditions, of transactions and obligations.

For goodness sake, he thinks. How many times do the two of us have to agree to this stupid marriage before it’s finally done?

“You can read, can’t you?” chimes a voice, and Yuji looks up to see Gojo’s blue eyes fixed on his.

“Yes,” Yuji tells him slowly, and holds his gaze. He feels, strangely, as though the question is some kind of test.

“And you know your numbers?” Gojo presses, and Yuji frowns.

“Yes,” he says again, and hopes both his eyes and his scent manage to convey his annoyance at the question. Judging by the slight raise of Gojo’s eyebrows and the mild smirk that flashes across his face, they do.

“He doesn’t need to read it,” chides the old woman, reminding them both that she’s still in the room. “The terms have long since been agreed upon.” She turns back to Yuji, and indicates the bottom of the final page, handing him her brush and inkwell. “All we need is for you both to sign your names, and it’s finished.”

Yuji obediently turns to the last page and sees, right at the bottom, the space for him to sign—right next to where, he’s surprised to see, Gojo has already signed his own.

His hand hovers, for just a fraction of a second, over the artfully scribed kanji of his husband’s full name. Well, he thinks. I suppose there’s nothing else for it, now. 

He picks up the brush and, with the both of them watching on, paints the first stroke of his family name onto the parchment. The final stroke of his given name is barely dried on the page before the old woman snatches it away, shuffling it together with all the others as she stands.

“Well,” she says, as she rises from her seat to a standing position, Yuji notes, that makes little difference where her height is concerned. She looks over at Gojo. “I trust that will be all?”

Gojo only gives a single, insouciant shrug, his eyes still on Yuji. “You’re the one who insisted on being here for this, not me.”

The woman stares at him for a moment, hard, as though considering rising to the bait of the statement he’s just made. In the end though, she seems to decide against it.

“I’ll let the rest of the council know, then.” She shuffles past Yuji to the door and then pauses, as she’s about to walk through it. “Are you not coming?” she asks, noticing that Gojo is still in his seat. Yuji may as well no longer exist, for all the attention she pays him. 

“I’m sure you can find the feasting hall on your own, old woman,” Gojo says.

Yuji’s jaw drops at such blatant rudeness, and he blinks at his husband in stunned shock.

Behind him, the woman makes a tsking sound, as if this is just something she’s used to from Gojo Satoru, and says, “It’s hardly appropriate, to remain here unchaperoned.”

Gojo actually rolls his eyes at her, and Yuji finds himself struck by a sudden hysterical desire to laugh.

“Oh, yes. I can hear the gossip mongers now. ‘ Gojo Satoru, alone with his bride after their wedding.’ A real scandal, I’m sure.” He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively and Yuji actually can’t contain a laugh at that, though he tries to cover it up with a cough—bringing his sleeve up quickly to cover his mouth as Gojo’s eyes flick over curiously to his, then back to the old woman.

“Or,” he continues, a wry tone bleeding into his voice. “Could it be you’re actually hoping for a scandal? Perhaps a preview to our little show  this evening?”

It takes Yuji a moment to catch Gojo’s meaning, but when he does the mirth drains completely from his frame. Heat floods his cheeks as, mortified, he looks down at his lap. Behind him, there’s a sharp intake of breath then the loud, pointed slam of the shoji door and the brisk sound of the woman’s retreating footsteps.

And so this is how Yuji finds himself alone for the first time with his new husband.

He’s expecting Gojo to maintain the table width of distance between them, so he’s surprised when after only a few seconds Gojo unfolds himself from his sitting position and strides over to lower himself beside Yuji, at the other end of the table. Yuji keeps his eyes down, but he senses every one of Gojo’s movements and there’s no escaping the way Gojo pins him with his gaze once more. 

“Do you know,” he says consideringly, after a minute or two have passed in uncomfortable silence, “I had no idea Itadori Wasuke was your Grandfather.”

Yuji stiffens and says nothing, fists tightening in his lap. I don’t want to talk about Grandpa , he thinks fiercely, but of course Gojo wouldn’t heed him even if he spoke the wish out loud. 

“You should be proud. I studied his strategies as a child and it sounds like he was a great warrior,” Gojo continues, heedless of Yuji’s discomfort. “Of course, none of my textbooks ever mentioned his family. And Ryomen Sukuna’s never used the Itadori name, not once, so I only found out after learning of our betrothal. I looked into your background, you see.” He must finally sense some level of indignance in Yuji’ scent at this, because he adds, “Ah, there’s no need to take it personally. I just wanted to know what I was signing up for.”

“Who,” Yuji corrects him, almost automatically, and winces when he realises he’s spoken the word out loud.

“Hm?” Gojo asks, his alpha pheromones peaking with interest, and Yuji tenses.

“Um,” he says, “I only meant that it’s really more who you were signing up for, Gojo-sama.” He can’t help but press on, “ Not what. I’m not…I’m not a thing, and—”

He snaps his mouth shut abruptly, realising that if his goal in this meeting is to toe the line with his husband he’s almost certainly failing. Again. After a long pause where it becomes apparent he’s not going to finish the statement, Gojo prompts him.

“And…?” he asks, and Yuji, emboldened by the lack of aggression in Gojo’s scent, continues. 

“And if you really want to know all that much about my background ,” he says plainly, “you should just ask me.” He chances a glance up at Gojo’s face and finds the man staring at him intently, brows drawn together in puzzlement. And then—

“Ha!” Gojo’s features relax into a laugh, and Yuji’s shocked to see a small flicker of warmth spark to life in his cool blue eyes. “I suppose you’re right, Itadori-kun. I just got ahead of myself, is all.” He smiles, cocking his head as he eyes Yuji with renewed interest. “But now you mention it, there is something I’m curious about.”

Yuji raises his eyebrows, questioning but wary, still, of what his husband may have in store for him next.

“Doesn’t it bother you that you’ll be the last to carry on your Grandfather’s name?”

Yuji flinches, heart sinking as he realises, of course, that Gojo’s right. He thinks of his surname as he signed it, minutes ago, the surname he’s had for all nineteen years of his life. The same surname he’s proudly shared not just with his Grandfather but his Father, too, and the same surname he hoped, once, that he could someday pass onto his own children. 

The name he’ll never get to pass onto his children, because he’s an omega now. He’s to be a mate of the Gojo clan, now, and all of the children he bears will carry the Gojo name. 

To Yuji’s immense embarrassment, he feels tears sting his eyes, and he quickly reverts his gaze back down to his lap. 

No, it’s just one more thing , he tells himself, trying to keep the bitterness out of his heart. It’s just one more thing that’s been lost, is all. It doesn’t matter.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he tells Gojo, forcing the words out through the sudden weight at the back of his throat. He swallows down every last inch of hurt Gojo’s dredged up with the question, and stares fiercely down at his hands. His fists are clenched so tightly he can feel the sharp bite of his fingernails against the calloused skin of his palm. “It’s an honour to carry on the Gojo family name.”

And by the Gods, he thinks, let that be the end of this conversation.

But of course, this is Gojo Satoru. And of course, he has no intention of letting Yuji escape any of their conversations with his dignity intact.

“Is it now,” Gojo says sceptically. Then, “If this marriage is to work,” he continues, his voice low and commanding, “I require honesty from you.”

Yuji resists the urge to sigh, annoyed. “I am being honest, Gojo-sama,” he says tonelessly, keeping as much emotion from his voice as he can. 

Gojo makes no such effort at resisting his own sigh, in response. “Are you?” he huffs, a caustic edge taking shape in his scent. “I think you’re being tediously diplomatic.”

Yuji stiffens, knowing there must be a matching edge to his own scent by now, but he maintains his composure. “I apologise if you find my company tedious, my lord.”

“Oh, come now,” Gojo snaps, “that isn’t what I meant and you—” He cuts himself off with another sigh, but this one, at least, sounds more tired than anything else. Another silence passes between them as Yuji’s scent prickles with discontent and Gojo’s scent settles itself into something so mild as to almost be undetectable. 

“Ita—no. Yuji-kun. Can you look up at me, please?”

Yuji’s eyes widen at the sound of his given name, and he feels compelled to comply, raising his gaze warily up to meet Gojo’s once again.

He watches as Gojo seems to consider his next words carefully. “I wasn’t trying to…offend you,” he says haltingly, then swallows, darts his eyes away and back again. “I just wanted to see what you would—well, it doesn’t matter.” He clears his throat and, to Yuji’s shock, reaches out and takes one of Yuji’s hands in his own. 

His hands are so much larger than mine, Yuji thinks, as Gojo’s hand almost completely envelopes his in its warmth. He blushes, realising this is the most the two of them have ever touched, and he blushes even more when he realises that, in fact, this is the closest they have ever physically been to each other.

And we’re only going to get closer from here, his mind helpfully supplies, but Gojo thankfully speaks again before he can follow that mental path through to its foregone conclusion. 

“If you’d prefer,” Gojo says, voice oddly sincere, “your name doesn’t necessarily have to end here.”

Yuji stares at him blankly, uncomprehending, and Gojo’s lips turn upwards into a faint smile. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not all that much a fan of tradition. My grandmother will likely die of shame to hear this, but I see no reason why our children can’t carry both of our names.”

For the second time since he walked in, Yuji’s jaw drops in shock. He can’t believe it. No, he won’t believe it. There’s no way—

But there’s nothing in Gojo’s scent to indicate deceit. No signs of mockery or derision in his expression, nothing at all to imply he’s making a fool of his bride. Yuji has no choice, then, in this moment, than to presume his husband is being honest with him. That his husband is being generous. That his husband is being…

Kind?

You are every inch the alpha I expected you would be.

Isn’t he?

“Of course,” Gojo continues, tapping the index finger of his free hand against his chin in thought, “our eldest will be the heir, so they’ll have to bear my name first. But that’s fine, right?” 

When Yuji says nothing in response, still reeling internally, Gojo smirks.

“You know, Yuji-kun, your face might get fixed into that expression if you keep it up any longer.”

Yuji’s jaw snaps shut and he averts his eyes. When he speaks his words come out hushed, quiet and shy. “Y-yes,” he says. “Thank you, Gojo-sama.” He bows his head. “Thank you so much.” He tries to infuse as much of his gratitude as he can into his scent, but he’s never been particularly good at such things. His mind returns once more to his Grandfather and he smiles, thinking of the name Grandpa gave him. The name he may yet still manage to give to his own children, one day. 

There’s a slight and indiscernible shift, in Gojo’s scent, but before Yuji can think to probe on what it might be his husband changes the subject. “Well, now we’re on the topic of honesty,” he says, “I have something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Oh,” Yuji says, feeling himself start to sweat. Surely they’re beyond late to the feast by now, aren’t they? He hopes the Gojo clan have at least let the guests in to take their seats. “Okay.”

Heedless of Yuji’s trepidation, Gojo goes on. “I have been informed,” he says, “that there was an altercation outside our wedding hall this evening, and as the family heir it’s up to me to see the culprit punished.”

Yuji stares at him, then nods slowly. “I understand,” he says, not quite following. He hopes Gojo doesn’t expect him to know anything further. He was too busy trying to keep up with the wedding itself to notice anything amiss outside the hall. 

Gojo smirks, amused as if he’s plucked the thoughts right from Yuji’s mind. “Well, I should hope so,” he says, “Considering you were at the centre of it.”

To Yuji’s credit, it takes only a second for him to comprehend Gojo’s meaning this time. His mind rushes back to a scene from hours ago now, before he’d ever even seen Gojo Satoru with his own eyes. A scene where, of course, he was right outside the wedding hall. A scene that was, of course, the result of an altercation between himself and his brother’s most loyal retainer, and a scene that was, of course, witnessed by any number of Gojo family guards and servants.

Ah, he thinks, remembering the sting of Uraume’s slap against his cheek, and then he catches up to the present conversation.

Gojo-sama wants to see, he thinks, his stomach sinking right down through him and into the ground, the culprit punished.

“No!” he says, shooting to his feet so quickly it rips his hand from Gojo’s. He’d almost forgotten they were still entwined, but his feels oddly bereft and cold, now, without the company of his husband’s.

“No,” he says again, as Gojo stares perplexedly up at him as if he’s throwing a deranged fit. “It’s nothing, my lord. That—it was nothing.”

In the span of a blink, Gojo’s expression flattens, his scent swirling with displeasure, and his voice is cool when he replies, “Nothing, huh? That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“It’s—” Yuji starts, but Gojo cuts him off.

“What I’ve heard,” he says, and stands himself, rising to his full impressive height a whole head and shoulders above Yuji’s own, “is that your brother’s retainer had the nerve—”

“Truly it wasn’t—

“The nerve to strike my bride.”

“—anything at all, just—”

“On my family grounds.”

“Just a disagreement—”

“At my wedding.”

“—between family members,” Yuji finishes, voice trailing off under Gojo’s icy gaze and the overwhelming pressure of Gojo’s aggravation as it permeates the room.

It occurs to Yuji that Gojo is far angrier about this than he expected. A chilly silence fills the renewed space between them, then Gojo frowns. 

“I don’t understand,” he says plainly, the wrath in his scent receding somewhat. “Why are you protecting them?”

Yuji stands his ground, gritting his teeth. Gojo’s wrong. He isn’t protecting Uraume. But—

But Gojo Satoru is a force of nature, and a prideful one at that. Clearly Uraume crossed some kind of invisible line today, and Gojo, incensed, wants to see them pay the price for it. Yuji doesn’t have any fondness for Uraume themselves, no, and in truth they could probably use some humbling, but Uraume isn’t just Uraume. They’re Sukuna’s right hand; his eyes and ears here in this kingdom on the other side of the country. If something happens to them, it’s only a matter of time before Sukuna finds out. 

And Yuji knows—he knows —that there is no force of nature more prideful than his older brother. Sukuna would see any attack on Uraume as an insult against his person, and there’s no telling how he might act in response. 

Five years of war and violence, of fear and grief and death. They’ve worked so hard to end it, but this peace is still new and fresh in the minds of all their memories. It may only take the slightest tip in the scale between these two warlords for it to all fall apart. 

Yuji doesn’t want that. Not before and certainly not now that he and Gojo are married. He near shudders at the thought of having to fight his way back to the West—or worse, of being captured and forced to stay uselessly behind the lines of the enemy while those he loves fight and die thousands of miles away. 

He shouldn’t have to explain this to Gojo Satoru. It should be obvious, and yet here Gojo stands bearing down on him for an answer. Is he even being serious right now? Is he just toying with Yuji? Testing him?

Frustrated, Yuji answers Gojo’s question with a question. 

“Why does it even bother you so much?” he snaps, then, remembering his manners, adds, “Gojo-sama.”

Gojo’s eyes widen and for a long moment he just blinks down at him, and if Yuji didn’t know any better he’d say he looked…

Completely dumbfounded . 

Yuji’s guard softens, slightly, as around them he feels Gojo’s pheromones simmer right down to nothing more than a muted irritation. 

Yuji looks away. “What difference does it make if they hit me today?” he continues, his voice calmer now. “They’ve done way worse before, okay? Look, it didn’t even leave a mark.” He gestures at his face. “And—and none of the other nobles saw, I’m sure of it. So please…” Please let it go, Yuji thinks, entreating as he looks up to meet Gojo’s gaze. 

Gojo’s eyes narrow and for a long, drawn out series of seconds it seems as if he wants to push the issue. But then he sighs, posture relaxing, and looks away. 

“All right,” he allows. “I suppose I’ll let it go, then.” And then adds, with a pointed look, “If that’s truly what you want.”

Yuji feels all the tension drain from his body in a relieved exhale. “It is,” he says, bowing his head. “Thank you, Gojo-sama. It was extenuating circumstances, I promise you. I’m certain it won’t happen again.” Because Uraume is leaving tomorrow, he thinks, and I have no intention of going anywhere near them.  

Gojo nods, bringing a hand up to run fingers through his hair. It only makes it look, if possible, more artfully tousled than it already did. 

“Oh, I have no doubt,” he says. “And I can only hope,” he adds, a wry smile forming across his lips as he shoots Yuji a playful glance, “that you’ll carry this stubborn sense of loyalty over to my side of the family, once we’re mated.”

Yuji splutters, cheeks heating as he’s completely unable to muster up a response, but he’s saved the indignity of having to do so by a sudden commotion just outside. Before Yuji can even think to wonder what’s going on the door slams open.

“I’m sorry, Gojo-sama!” cries the serving girl, throwing herself onto the floor in subjugation.

“YUJI!” Choso roars, eyes alight with fear and fury.

“Choso!?” Yuji yelps, alarmed at the look in his friend’s eyes and about to ask What’s wrong? when he remembers. “Wait—I’m fine! Has it really been half an hour?”

Gojo eyes Choso up warily, though it’s clear by his scent he’s not at all threatened. “Yuji-kun,” he says. “Care to explain?”

Yuji grimaces. Not really, he thinks, but seeing the dangerous look in Choso’s eyes he knows he’d better before he needs to defend yet another member of his family from his husband’s wrath. Thankfully everyone’s moods settle in the time it takes for him to quickly explain the deadline he set earlier, and if Gojo’s pride stings at having been seen as a potential threat he doesn’t appear to dwell on it. 

“You really are quite protective, aren’t you,” he muses, regarding Choso with a knowing smirk as though it’s something they’ve talked about before.

Puzzled, Yuji wonders when the two of them would’ve had the chance to talk about this before, but there’s no time to ask right now. “Gojo-sama,” he says. “The wedding feast—the guests—we have to—”

Gojo laughs. He waves his hand through the air, unconcerned. “Yes, yes,” he concurs. “I’m sure my noble allies must be starving fit to gnaw their own arms off by now.” He grins, a feral glint in his eyes as he adds, “Just the way I like them.”

Yuji shivers. “W-well, in any case, we really should be going…” He moves towards Choso and the door, expecting Gojo to accompany him but his husband hangs back, unbothered. 

“You go on,” Gojo says, waving his hand in a gentle shooing motion at the both of them. “I’ve some business to attend to but I’ll be along shortly.” At what must be the look of complete and utter disbelief in Yuji’s eyes at yet another delay, he continues, “I’ll make sure my family knows the feast can start without me, too, so you don’t need to trouble yourself about that.”

Well that’s something, at least, Yuji thinks, though he still hesitates slightly at the door. Strangely, he finds himself almost wanting to hang back with his husband, despite the overwrought emotions of their last half hour together. In fact, it feels as if they might’ve just been on the edge of getting to talk to each other properly when Choso stormed in, and Yuji wishes, somewhat shamefacedly, that Choso might have waited just a little bit longer before fulfilling their earlier promise. 

Perhaps some level of his disappointment comes through in his scent, because Gojo meets his eyes with a knowing smile.

“Don’t look so sad, Yuji-kun,” he teases, then winks. “Just save me a seat, won’t you?”

Yuji’s struck by the urge to say something in return, but not for the first time tonight, his mind fails him. And so he only offers a gentle nod and a wave before he turns, leaving his husband to whatever business he could have to attend to that’s more important than his own wedding reception. 

As Yuji makes his way back down the corridor, Choso and the young serving girl in tow, Yuji’s brain churns with the aftermath of everything that just passed between himself and his husband.

You should be proud. It sounds like he was a great warrior.

Your name doesn’t necessarily have to end here.

I suppose I’ll let it go, then. If that’s truly what you want.

Just save me a seat, won’t you?

No matter how many times Yuji turns the memories over in his brain—no matter how he tries to make sense of it all in line with everything he thought he knew about Gojo Satoru—he can’t help but come to the same conclusion every time.

Gojo Satoru didn’t summon him here to hurt or torment him. Gojo Satoru didn’t summon him here to threaten him. And Gojo Satoru didn’t summon him here to argue with him, either.

It’s almost as if—

It’s almost as if he just wanted to speak with me, Yuji realises, so that he might get to know me.

The thought makes him wonder, and he huffs a quiet, bemused laugh to himself.

You are every inch the alpha I expected you would be.

Maybe Yuji was wrong.

Maybe Gojo Satoru is more than he appeared to be, after all. 

–*--

It takes Satoru no time at all to locate Ryomen Sukuna’s little pet. Satoru’s only met them the once before, fleetingly, right before the wedding, but with a sense of smell as keen as Satoru’s that’s all it takes to track them down.

When he finds them—spots them lurking slyly in an antechamber usually reserved for servants, outside the ceremony hall, no doubt hoping to pick up on any errant gossip Satoru’s family servants let slip to report back to Sukuna—he wastes no time on pleasantries.

“You,” he says lowly, and he’s at Uraume’s side before they even notice his presence in the room. The abruptness of his appearance startles them, he’s sure, as he hears their heartbeat hasten and sees the minute widening of their eyes before they forcibly compose themselves. 

“Gojo Satoru,” they say, and meet his fiery gaze with their own iced cold one. The implied insult of their not addressing Satoru by his title does not go unnoticed. “Can I help you?”

Satoru smirks, though there isn’t the slightest hint of humour in his voice when he speaks. “Get out.” Though his eyes are on Uraume, he uses his alpha presence to direct the command outwards. Immediately, every servant in the room stops what they’re doing and exits the room. Uraume holds Satoru’s gaze stoically until the last possible moment, the slightest hint of anxiety flickering across their expression as they hear the sound of the last person out sliding the door shut behind them.

Their eyes dart to the door, quick as a blink, and Satoru strikes. 

Uraume flinches, unable to hold in a sharp gasp of pain as Satoru’s hand closes around the thin length of their forearm. Funny, Satoru thinks, because he’s grabbed hold of their arm only a small fraction as hard as he’d have liked to. If Satoru had his way, he would’ve gripped Uraume’s arm tight enough to shatter the bone. 

You can thank Yuji-kun for my restraint, he thinks savagely, and squeezes tighter. Uraume hisses, eyes narrowing from the pain, and Satoru smiles.

“I don’t care who you are,” he says. “I don’t care what history you have, with Itadori Yuji, that you think gives you the right to lay your hands on him.”

He tightens his grip once more; hard enough, this time, that he feels the bone grinding against itself under the pressure. Uraume is watching him with open alarm now, combined with no small touch of indignant rage burning in the very depths of their eyes.

As if they’re the one who has the right to be angry.

“And,” Satoru grinds out, “I don’t care what you have to say to Ryomen Sukuna after all of this is over.”

Uraume scowls, breathing in hard through their nose in a series of deep, long breaths as they try, presumably, to elevate themselves above the pain. They don’t speak, which is good—Satoru hasn’t yet given them permission to do so. He bears down on them now with all the intimidation of a slighted alpha, infusing as much hostility into his scent as he dares without reducing everyone in the vicinity to a blubbering mess. 

Uraume, clearly, is made of stronger stuff than just an average beta. Though they tremble, heart racing and a fine sheen of sweat forming across their skin, Sukuna’s trained them well. Even in the face of Satoru’s onslaught, they do not crumble. 

“All that matters to me,” Satoru says at last, “is that Itadori Yuji is my bride .” He pulls Uraume up by their arm and it must hurt, because Uraume can’t contain a sharp cry of pain at the pressure. Satisfied, Satoru leans over them and finishes—

“If you lay a hand on him again, I will send you back to your master with one less arm than you left him with.” A pause as he allows the threat to sink in. “Do you understand?”

For a moment Uraume’s eyes shine with livid, righteous outrage, and they seem almost as if they might argue. I dare you, Satoru thinks. I dare you to give me just one reason—

A shutter comes down over Uraume’s face, and just like that their expression falls blank and coolly benign once more. 

“I understand,” they tell him, their voice rough with restrained exertion.

Satoru releases them; tosses their arm from his grip like it’s a venomous snake he wants no further business with. To Uraume’s credit, though their breathing notably slows with relief at having been freed, they still manage to maintain their steely composure. And they don’t retreat from Satoru’s space like the scared mouse another beta might have become in the face of such an obvious show of force.

“Good,” Satoru says, allowing his pheromones to settle completely as he fixes a pleasant smile onto his face like they’ve been haggling over nothing but the price of Yuji’s dowry. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you at the feast then!”

And with that, he turns and strides from the room, shooting a cheery little wave over his shoulder as he does so.

He flexes his fingers, the muscles still jumping beneath his skin with the sensation of the grip he had on Uraume’s arm. Pushed a little further, he thinks, he might have actually managed to tear it off.

There, Yuji-kun, he thinks, remembering the look on his young bride’s face earlier, pleading with his sweet voice and his warm amber eyes for Satoru to drop the issue. I did as you asked, didn’t I?

I let it go.

Chapter Text

When Yuji walks into the wedding hall for the second time that evening, it’s to find it decked out in a lavish display of food and finery. A series of long tables have been set up throughout the massive room, each lined with plush cushions of expensive silk enough to seat hundreds of people. 

And seat hundreds of people, they do. It seems Gojo’s elders finally tired of his tardiness and decided to commence the celebration on his behalf, as the guests that were previously congregating outside have now well and truly filled the structure to bursting. 

Yuji sighs audibly with relief, but the sound is drowned out by the din of good cheer and merriment filling the hall. With this many people, he’s sure his and his party’s entrance has gone unnoticed, for the most part, and he intends to keep it that way as long as possible. He peers into the distance, at the far end of the hall where the most lavish table of all sits atop the familiar raised dais from the wedding. It towers alone above all the other tables in the room, and if that wasn’t enough of a sign that it must be Yuji’s destination, the two notably empty seats at its centre definitively give it away. These seats, he knows, must be reserved for himself and his husband.

Goal set, Yuji glances back at his companions. He jabs a thumb at the table in the distance. “I’m guessing that’s me,” he says.

Kugisaki huffs. “Yup, that’s it all right.” She jerks her head at a table nearby to the elevated one, right at the base of the dais. “And that’s me.”

Yuji follows her gaze and sure enough sees that the table’s decked out in the colours and crest of the Kugisaki clan. At its head, to his surprise, sits someone he recognises.

“Oh,” he says dumbly. “I think that old woman is on the council.”

Kugisaki squints at him, then laughs. “No shit, Itadori,” she says. “That’s my Grandmother.”

Realisation clicks into place. “Ohhhh,” Yuji says again, with more understanding this time.

So that’s the Lady Kugisaki, he thinks. No wonder Gojo was so rude to her before.

The Kugisaki matriarch was well-known to be among the more conservative factions in the council, and she made no secret of her disdain for Gojo Satoru’s more…unconventional methods of running his clan.

“Anyway,” Kugisaki drawls, “I’d better go make an appearance or I’ll never hear the end of it. See you idiots later.” She looks at Yuji with a smug grin. “Try not to let this one get too drunk, okay?” 

Before Yuji can defend himself that he’s perfectly capable of holding his alcohol, actually, she shoots them a wave and quickly disappears into the crowd on her way to her clan’s table. 

Yuji turns to his remaining friends, about to suggest they make their way discreetly around the perimeter of the room to the table, when he spots another familiar face approaching.

“Nanamin!” he calls, face lighting up in a smile to see the beta again. He only met the man for the first time today, at the docks when their ship arrived, but Yuji remembers seeing a steadfast kindness and decency in his eyes that he found oddly comforting, in those first few minutes on a shore so otherwise cold and foreign to him. For that same reason, it puts his mind more at ease to see him now as well.

“Itadori-kun,” Nanami greets him without inflection, nodding his head in acknowledgement. He addresses Yuji’s companions, then, similarly civil. “And Choso-san, Yoshino-san. I must admit, I was just about to go looking for you.” 

Yuji laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “Ah, sorry we’re so late,” he says, bringing an arm up to rub at the back of his neck. “We—well, I got caught up with…”

He trails off, noticing as Nanami’s eyeline drops from his face down to his lower body, the beta’s eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. Confused, Yuji follows his gaze and realises, belatedly, that his arm’s no longer concealing the wine stain. 

“Oh, shit,” he curses without thinking, and then winces. Should he really be swearing in front of one of Gojo’s advisors? Surely Nanami won’t mind, right? He doesn’t seem like the type to—

“It’s just a small spill,” Junpei chimes in, coming to Yuji’s rescue as Yuji flounders internally. “We’re managing it.”

Nanami flicks his gaze back up to Yuji’s eye level, face impassive as he pushes his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure you are,” he says curtly. “Now that you’re here, Itadori-kun, I’ll take you to your seat.”

“Huh?” Yuji asks, then, “Ah, it’s all right.” He points. “We’ve already found the table, so don’t trouble yourself.”

Nanami stares at him flatly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t offering, Itadori-kun,” he says, then, more gently, “And it’s no trouble at all. Please, come with me.”

He turns, beckoning for Yuji to follow, and with a quick backward glance at his companions, Yuji does. They’re about halfway across the room already when Yuji decides to put words to the thoughts troubling him.

“Did…” He trails off. “Did Gojo-sama order you to escort me?” The thought embarrasses him. Does his husband truly think him so helpless—or his own sworn guard so ineffectual—as to need an additional escort just for the purposes of walking from one end of a room to another?

But Nanami shakes his head. “No. Honestly, it probably didn’t even occur to him.” 

Well, at least someone here knows I’m not completely helpless, Yuji thinks irritably. “Then why?” he asks.

Nanami glances back, letting out an amused hm at what must be the unimpressed look on Yuji’s face. “Don’t look so offended, Itadori-kun,” he says, returning his eyes to their destination. “It’s not a matter of protection.” When Yuji just stares silently at the back of his head in response, he continues. “We only mean to send—well, something of a message, to the other clans.”

We? Yuji thinks, wondering to whom else Nanami could be referring.

“Ah, I see,” Junpei says, evidently comprehending something.

Yuji casts a bewildered look over his shoulder at his friend, who grins fondly at him. “It looks better from the outside,” he explains in an undertone. “Shows a sense of unity, so it’s not just your entourage at one end and his at the other.”

“Oh,” Yuji says, expression softening with understanding. Though this still doesn’t entirely explain the mysterious we Nanami was referring to, Yuji decides to drop it for now.

In no time at all they arrive at the foot of the dais, where a small set of stairs have been placed for ease of access. Nanami turns to face Yuji, beckoning for him to step up first as, technically, the higher ranked between them. Yuji nods, unthinking, and ascends the stairs.

The room which had, until this point, rung loud and raucous with the sound of the Gojo clan’s guests abruptly quiets, and Yuji stiffens as he feels hundreds of pairs of eyes turn to fix themselves upon his back. He supposes it was too much to ask that he seat himself as surreptitiously as possible, as surely his marriage and impending bonding with Gojo Satoru has piqued no small amount of curiosity amongst the other major families of the East. Though what exactly they’re expecting him to do, between the top of these steps and his seat, he can only guess. 

He adopts a subtle shift in posture, ensuring the wine stain is completely concealed, and takes the final step up onto the platform. Before him, by far the largest table in the room is set up in an arc, its open end facing the room and its guests seated all along the side furthest from the rest of the feast-goers. Yuji skims his eyes fruitlessly across the guests in search of a familiar face as Nanami arrives at the top of the stairs behind him, with Junpei and Choso at his heels. 

What follows is a procession of introductions to, according to Nanami, the various members of Gojo Satoru’s inner circle. “Or at least,” Nanami adds wryly, “those the Gojo clan permits him to acknowledge.” 

The words cast Yuji’s mind back to Hakari and Kirara—allies Gojo personally entrusted with his care on the journey from West to East, but who couldn’t attend Gojo’s wedding for fear of agitating the Gojo clan. Yuji wonders who else among Gojo’s circle he won’t get the chance to meet tonight; he wonders, too, if Gojo will ever count him amongst that circle himself. 

Of those granted a seat at the table, only two stand out. Iori Utahime, an omega from a clan of similar age—if not prestige—to Gojo’s own, and Ieiri Shoko, a beta noble from a minor house with deep circles under her eyes, a goblet of rich plum wine in one hand and a smoking pipe in the other. 

The smell of the smoke weaves in through Yuji’s nostrils, a rich, soothing texture to it that’s a far cry from the cheap tobacco the old grandpas all smoked back home. As they exchange introductions—she’s Gojo’s private physician, as it turns out—she peers up at him with mild interest in her sparkling brown eyes, her pale cheeks pink, no doubt, with the warmth of the wine.

“Itadori-kun. I’ve known your husband a long time,” she tells him, a knowing smile writ across her face. “To be honest, I never pictured him settling down with an omega—"

Yuji flinches, but before he can respond, Iori chimes in. “Don’t be cruel, Shoko-chan,” she chides, and Yuji’s grateful to her for the split second before she follows the statement up with, “We didn’t picture him settling down with anyone.”

That’s not better, Yuji grumbles internally. Looking more closely, her face looks even more flushed with alcohol than Ieiri’s. He nods politely, and moves to shuffle past them both, but Ieiri’s next words, addressed not even to him but to Utahime instead, slow him for a moment. 

“I was only trying to say—I think that boy might actually be good for him...”

The words cast Yuji’s mind back yet again, to his final farewell to Megumi and Megumi’s sincere wish for his marriage’s success.

I think he might actually be good for you. 

Yuji clenches his fists, and keeps walking. But what if he’s not? he can’t help but wonder.

What if I’m not?

If the others notice any difference in his demeanour, they don’t comment.

Finally, they arrive at the very centre of the table—the peak of the arch—and Yuji spots the two empty seats intended for himself and his husband. And then directs his attention, immediately, to the person he’ll need to pass to get to them.

A pale, lanky young man, clearly only a year or so older than Yuji, with dark hair and dark circles beneath the deep, soulful blue of his eyes, visible as they flick upwards to regard Yuji with benign curiosity. Benign curiosity that sharply contrasts with the sheer unchecked alpha menace emanating from the man’s whole frame.

Yuji can barely contain a shudder as their gazes meet. He feels temporarily frozen in place, hesitating to take another foot forward as every instinct within him roars at him that he needs to ready himself right the fuck now for a fight. 

“This is Okkotsu Yuta,” Nanami tells him, indicating the man with a nod, and Yuji’s eyes widen as his fear response calms itself, somewhat. He doesn’t need Nanami to explain further, but he does anyway. 

“Gojo Satoru’s heir apparent.” 

Ah, Yuji thinks, and hastily bows his head to Okkotsu. “Okkotsu-san,” he says. “It’s an honour.” Of course, he berates himself, feeling foolish for not recognising that this is who it must be from the start. 

In the time since his engagement was first announced, Yuji’s received an accelerated education on as many members of the Gojo family as his friends and allies could provide—no small feat, as the family and all of its offshoots numbered in the hundreds. Of them all, though, Okkotsu Yuta is the one who intrigued Yuji most from the start. 

A distant cousin of Gojo’s through the matrilineal line, born into a family of beta with no name, wealth or prestige to speak of, he’d taken the realm by complete shock five years ago by presenting as an alpha with raw strength and talent to rival Gojo’s own. At the cusp of what soon became the long and gruelling power struggle between Gojo and Yuji’s own brother, Gojo had quickly taken Okkotsu under his wing and personally trained him into the formidable alpha and warrior he is today. 

Fair enough, then, that Yuji should be nervous at the first hint of Okkotsu’s pheromones. Perhaps instinctively, he knew this was Okkotsu all along. 

Should his marriage with Gojo Satoru prove successful, his children will supplant Okkotsu’s rights as the future Gojo family head. And though he’s never met Okkotsu Yuta personally before now, he’s heard more than enough of his tactics and exploits on the battlefield to know the alpha’s more than earned his title as Gojo’s heir.

Should Yuji somehow outlive his husband, and the inheritance come down to bloodshed…Yuji only hopes he has the combat strength and experience to—

“Itadori-kun,” Okkotsu greets in a soft voice that completely belies the intensity of his aura and bearing. If he senses the wariness in Yuji’s scent, he makes no show of it. “The honour is mine. I’ve heard much about you.” He smiles up at Yuji from his seat at the table as his pheromones appear to settle into something far more welcoming and almost…No, Yuji dismisses. It couldn’t be that.

Yuji hesitates for a moment, mentally thrown and unable to think of a response in wake of the unexpected warmth emanating from someone he expected, by all means, to serve as his bitterest rival. Evidently no one else feels it’s their place to answer Okkotsu in Yuji’s stead, and so the polite pause between the five of them—Yuji, Junpei, Choso, Nanami and Okkotsu—drags out into a silence a little more uncomfortable as around them, the feast carries on as scheduled. 

A passing servant weaves past Yuji’s group and places a fresh serving of food upon the table before them. Right on cue, Yuji breathes in and gets a whiff of the rich, nutty scent of what must be the famous Eastern curried meat and rice dishes he’s heard so much about from his Eastern allies, and his stomach rumbles in anticipation. 

Okkotsu’s eyes widen as something seems to occur to him.  

He gestures to the empty place at his left. “You must be hungry!” he says quickly. “You don’t have to stand on my account. Satoru-san—I mean, my cousin asked that I make you comfortable in his absence.” He meets Yuji’s gaze, his eyes totally sincere, and then directs it beyond him, to Junpei and Choso. “Your retainers too. Please sit and help yourself, everyone.” He waves his arm at the array of freshly cooked food laid across the table, the steam still emanating from it in decadent waves. At either end of the table, the rest of the guests have already started dining. 

Yuji realises he hasn’t eaten anything himself since the hard salted pork and stale bread on board the ship from his homeland this morning, and that more than anything else is what settles the decision for him. 

With a polite bow of acknowledgement, he slides past Okkotsu and takes his place at the table. Junpei and Choso exchange a glance and soon follow, taking their place behind and to his right and left, respectively, in the allotted parallel seating reserved for personal guards at the high table. 

Noticing Nanami is still standing over them, Yuji looks up and down the table, confused. “Hey, Nanamin,” he calls. “Where will you sit?”

Nanami indicates an empty seat at the very end of the table, opposite the direction they’ve just come. “I’m right over there,” he says, adding, “and I’ll be in and out for the rest of the evening, so we might not have a chance to talk again tonight.” 

Yuji opens his mouth to respond, searching for the words to convey his thanks to the beta for his help, but Nanami holds up a hand. “You don’t have to trouble yourself with thanking me. Take care, Itadori-kun.” 

The beta bows his head politely and departs. Yuji watches him go a little regretfully. Nanami told him, earlier, when they were en route to the Gojo estate, that while he’s under Gojo’s employ he only occasionally drops by to visit the property itself. Wouldn’t it be nice, Yuji thinks, if he could keep the few friendly faces in the Gojo clan around him as often as possible?

Yuji takes a moment to pray above his plate, thanking the Gods and the Gojo family cooks for their generosity. And then without further ado, he reaches for the source of that sweet, nutty scent and starts ladling it onto his serving plate.

He’s so fixated on getting the curry onto his dish without spilling it on the expensive cloth draped over the dining table that he doesn’t even notice the drool trailing down from his mouth until a drop of it spills down onto the plate. 

There’s a soft huff of laughter to his right, and Yuji's eyes nervously dart sideways to find Okkotsu watching him, hand partially covering his mouth and the delicate smile etched across it. 

Yuji hurriedly wipes his mouth and looks away, pouting a little. He doesn’t appreciate being laughed at, especially not by his direst of adversaries amongst the Gojo clan.

“Oi, Yuji,” Choso whispers from behind him. Distracted, Yuji glances back over his shoulder. Choso cocks his head at the food, then at Junpei who, Yuji can see now, is staring at the array of dishes laid across the table with a look of hunger so voracious Yuji nearly blushes at the sight of it.

Oh, right, Yuji remembers, mentally scolding himself. His friends have hardly had the time to eat since disembarking, either. 

“Junpei,” he calls, and at his friend’s questioning look, hands Junpei his already prepared plate. “Take this,” he orders, not giving Junpei the chance to refuse before he turns and prepares a second portion for Choso. 

Choso tries to wave him off—No, I’m fine, you need it more than me—but Yuji won’t take no for an answer until he finally relents, taking the plate from Yuji with a beleaguered sigh.

“I hope I haven’t offended you, Itadori-san,” Okkotsu murmurs, and Yuji stiffens. 

“Not at all,” he says, recovering quickly. A moment of silence passes as he ladles a third portion of food into a fresh bowl, and then he clears his throat, uncomfortable. “I apologise for my, uh. Late arrival.”

Okkotsu smiles. “Not at all,” he mimics, then, “I should be the one apologising, after all. For missing the wedding.”

Yuji blinks, a generous spoonful of curry and rice paused halfway between the bowl and his mouth. “Oh, that’s right,” he realises out loud. “I forgot you were invited.”

Yuji doesn’t mean anything untoward by it—of course he doesn’t—but all the same, the less-than-polite implications of the words settle over him at almost the exact moment he’s spoken them aloud. 

Oh, Gods. He cringes, ears burning with embarrassment as he avoids Okkotsu’s gaze, stumbling to clarify. “Ah, that is—I didn’t mean—um…”

“It’s all right, Itadori-kun,” Okkotsu cuts him off, but there’s no hostility or offence in his tone. He speaks gently, and sounds more amused than anything else. “I was invited,” he explains. “And I’m sure our family’s elders are none too pleased that I didn’t show, but I had some urgent matters to attend to.”

Yuji puts his spoon down. “What matters?” he asks, wariness fading in light of newfound curiosity. 

“Bandits,” Okkotsu says. “At the southern edge of my territory. There’s more than one alpha amongst them, and in my experience…” He raises a fist, loosely clenched, a deceptively self-effacing smile on his face. “To beat down a pack of alphas, it’s best to send in one really strong alpha from the start.”

Yuuji laughs, but a counterpoint occurs to him all the same. “Or one really charming omega,” he posits, and is pleased when this prompts a warm chuckle out of Okkotsu in return. 

“That, too,” he agrees, then adds, almost as if to himself, “Though I’ll admit it’s been a while since an omega managed to charm me quite that much.” Before Yuji can ask what he means by that, Okkotsu turns away for a moment, his posture and pheromones noticeably more relaxed, and Yuji notices, for the first time, the edge of a mating mark peeking out from under the collar of his kimono. 

That’s right, he remembers, the previously compartmentalised information unlocking itself again inside his mind. The fact that not only is Okkotsu Yuta mated, but he is mated, amidst much scandal and uproar, to another alpha. And come to think of it, Yuji’s fairly certain she’s Fushiguro Megumi’s cousin—yet another member of the Zenin clan.

The Zenin really do get around, don’t they?

Strangely, Yuji can’t seem to detect any hints of Zenin Maki’s scent on Okkotsu’s person, despite her mark etched there plain as day onto his neck. He’s pondering so hard on why this might be that he loses sight of the fact that he’s still staring intently at Okkotsu’s neck until Okkotsu’s scent shudders slightly, beneath his attention, and Okkotsu turns to regard him again.

Yuji feels his own pheromones simmer in shame at being caught out, but Okkotsu is unbothered.

He brings a hand up to cover the mark on his neck, seemingly self-conscious. “My mate’s pheromone signature is in a class even the oldest and wisest among us don’t fully understand,” he says, correctly intuiting what Yuji was thinking about. Yuji looks hastily away, mentally chiding himself for staring so unabashedly at someone he’s only just met. 

Okkotsu adds, “She sends her apologies, by the way, for not being able to make it.” He continues, voice fond, “She’s helping me out with the trouble back home and, well.” He laughs, a little awkwardly. “We’re not on the best terms with the Zenin clan head. I can manage, but it’s best those two don’t run into each other.”

“The Zenin clan’s head?” Yuji asks, and the name comes to his mind. “Zenin Naoya?”

Okkotsu’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’ve met him?” he asks, and Yuji shakes his head.

“No, I’ve just—uh.” He cuts himself off, not sure how to explain he only knows because the information’s been so thoroughly crammed into his brain over the last three months that he doubts he’ll ever be able to forget even if he never meets the actual man in question for the rest of his life. “I’ve just heard,” he finishes, and adds, “Anyway, tell your mate it’s okay. The last thing we need tonight is more drama, and—”

A sudden hush falls throughout the room as, at its opposite end, the doors slide open.

It seems that Gojo Satoru has arrived at last. 

Distracted from his train of thought, Yuji watches as Gojo lingers in the doorway, his eyes scanning calculatedly throughout the room until finally, they find and lock on Yuji’s.

For a long moment, they hold each other’s gazes, and Yuji feels the sound of the room around him fade out in one long rush until the only thing he can hear clearly is the steady beat of his own heartbeat.

Yuji’s cheeks heat, and he quickly averts his eyes back down to his food. With forced normalcy he starts to shovel it into his mouth as fast as humanly possible. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. It’s just a look, for Gods’ sake. But he feels so nervous all of a sudden.

Beside him, Okkotsu seems to be hiding another smile behind his hand. Yuji deliberately chooses not to acknowledge it, just as he deliberately chooses not to watch Gojo cross the room, though he can sense his husband growing closer all the same. Can track his movement by the seasalt spice of his scent as it draws nearer whether he wants it to or not. 

Gojo makes his way down the length of the table just as Yuji did, several minutes earlier, though unlike Yuji Gojo actually knows all of its occupants, and knows them well if the raucous sounds of their conversations is anything to go by. 

Yuji is simultaneously impatient for him to just get over here already and hopeful that he takes all the time in the world. I wonder if he’ll ever speak to me that freely, he wonders, but before he can think much more about it, his husband stands above him on the dais.

Yuji feels Gojo’s eyes on the back of his neck and braces himself, for an exchange of greetings. But—

“Yuta-kun!” Gojo sings, bypassing Yuji entirely. Yuji looks up in surprise to see his husband beaming down at Okkotsu, who smiles warmly back at him in answer. “I thought you’d never show.”

“Good evening, Satoru-san,” Okkotsu murmurs. “Congratulations on your marriage.” He bows. 

Gojo waves him off. “C’mon now, none of that. We’re family aren’t we?” He slips behind Okkotsu, then Yuji, clearly aiming for the seat to Yuji’s left.

Yuji stiffens as he passes, starting to feel a little slighted at not having been greeted at all.

And then he feels the warmth of Gojo’s hand rest briefly on his shoulder as he lowers himself down into his seat, and the feeling is all but forgotten.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, dearest,” Gojo teases, amused grin widening as Yuji whips around to stare at him in bafflement. Dearest? 

Gojo gestures at Yuji’s bowl. “I trust you’re enjoying the food? I’ve heard my tastes tend to run a little too…” He meets Yuji’s eyes. “Sweet,” he finishes, smirking knowingly as though the two of them are in on some secret joke together.

“Y-yes,” Yuji says, then clears his throat and repeats, with forced nonchalance, “Yes, thank you, Gojo-sama. It’s good.”

Gojo props his elbow rudely on the table, resting his head in his hand in the now familiar insouciant pose Yuji’s starting to associate with him. “Did you make it up here all right? You looked so lost when you were leaving, earlier, I worried you might not find your way.”

“I’m not so helpless as all that, Gojo-sama,” Yuji says patiently, keeping a firm hold on his pride though of course, it’s clear his husband is trying to get a rise out of him. “I found my way in here just fine.” Pointedly, he directs his attention back to his food.

“Ah,” Gojo muses, and seems to time his next statement for the exact moment Yuji shoves a large helping of food into his mouth. “I suppose that look on your face was just because you couldn’t bear to be parted with me, then.”

Yuji hiccups, choking as his food burns itself down the wrong pipe and plunges him helplessly into a violent coughing fit that he immediately attempts to disguise. He hunches over and muffles the coughs as well as he can into his forearm, eyes watering and his face turning red from the exertion.

“Come now, Yuji-kun, there’s no need to blush,” Gojo teases, the laughter in his voice as blatant as the fact that he knows Yuji isn’t blushing at all. “I missed you, too.”

“Satoru-san,” Okkotsu’s cool voice interjects, his tone chiding. Yuji feels a soothing hand at his back and catches the faintest hint of the other alpha’s pheromones up close as Okkotsu moves automatically to calm him. “Must you torment him so?”

“It’s fine,” Yuji rasps, waving his hand. He’s not sure what embarrasses him more; his husband’s mirth, or Okkotsu Yuta’s sympathy. He clears his throat. “Thank you, Gojo-sama,” he says smoothly. Adding, as he makes flat, unimpressed eye contact with his husband, “For your concern.”

Gojo’s face lights up in a knowing grin as their eyes meet, and Yuji has the distinct sense that, if he had his way, they might continue this insincere exchange of pleasantries well into the night, the rest of the wedding guests be damned. 

Bring it on, Yuji thinks, but some rogue sense of tact must sway Gojo away from such a notion, as instead he flicks his attention back over to Okkotsu.

“It’s a shame—

–*--

“—Maki couldn’t make it,” Satoru drawls in Yuta’s general direction, leaning across Yuji to swipe a dumpling as he does so. He catches Yuji’s sweet orange blossom scent on an inhale as he leans in close, and perhaps lingers in his bride’s personal space a touch longer than necessary. 

Gods, but he’s starving. “Naoya-kun’s in a mood, y’know?” he continues without waiting for an answer from his cousin. He takes a bite out of his dumpling, mouth full and words muffled when he adds, “Would’ve been nice to see those two fight again.”

He feels Yuji’s gaze on his cheek, and glances over to see a curious glint in his bride’s eyes. He meets it with a sly smile, and Yuji looks quickly away.

Yuta frowns, his pheromones frosting over with an observable chill. “Nice for you, Satoru-san,” he says. “But I’d rather not put Maki-san through such a thing again.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, swallows, and reaches for another dumpling. “You say that like she lost,” he remarks dryly, but doesn’t push the conversation. He can already feel Yuji’s pheromones reacting nervously to the irritation in Yuta’s, and he doesn’t want to cause Yuji any more stress tonight than he already has.

He freezes, dumpling paused dumbly between his mouth and the table. Could it be that he’s actually…considering Itadori Yuji’s feelings?

“What kind of mood?” Yuji asks, thankfully cutting off Satoru’s brief crisis of identity before it can fully take hold. At Satoru’s and Yuta’s questioning stares, he clarifies, “Zenin Naoya. You said he’s in a mood—right, Gojo-sama? What’s wrong with him?”

“What isn’t wrong with him,” Yuta mutters under his breath, and Satoru can’t help it; he laughs. 

“Now, Yuta-kun,” he teases, through a mouthful of his second dumpling. “Remember your manners.”

Yuta just shoots him a flat look and returns to his own food, leaving it to Satoru, happily, to explain. 

“Have you ever heard of the small dog complex, Yuji-kun?” he asks his bride. 

Yuji frowns slightly, as if considering, then nods thoughtfully. “It’s when the runt of the litter acts tougher than he is, right? Because he’s scared.”

Satoru shrugs. “The runt of the litter, sure. Or just a weak little dog in general, when compared to his peers.” When Yuji nods, understanding, he adds, “Now, imagine instead of dogs we’re talking about alphas.” He smirks, watching as comprehension dawns across Itadori Yuji’s face. 

“Ah,” Yuji tells him, nodding. “Say no more. He’s one of those.”

Satoru smirks. “You’re damn right he is,” he says, pleased to see his bride being so quick on the uptake. “And as for what’s got him in such a mood, that’s obvious.”

Yuji frowns, clearly a little slower on the uptake here, but that’s all right. Satoru has no doubts he’ll catch up.

“It’s the wedding,” Satoru clarifies, basting his next dumpling in a nearby pot of dipping sauce. “Or more specifically, the marriage.”

Yuji cocks his head. “You mean…our marriage?”

Cute, Satoru thinks despite himself. “Our marriage,” he confirms, and shoves the dumpling in his mouth, humming with pleasure as he tastes the spicy sweet tang of the sauce on his tongue. “Have you tried this, Yuji-kun?” he asks, but the words are muffled by a mouthful of food so he won’t hold it against Yuji that he doesn’t answer. 

“I don’t understand,” his bride says instead, his eyes and his voice concerned beyond a reasonable amount, Satoru thinks, for the conversation. “Why would Zenin Naoya be angry about our—”

Across the room comes the sound of the doors opening, and Satoru misses the end of Itadori Yuji’s question as he catches a familiar scent in the air. Attention diverted, he turns to face the door and spots the edge of an equally familiar deep purple kimono right before it slips out of sight behind a gaggle of other guests. Took you long enough, Satoru thinks, already excited to rub in his best friend’s face just how much he didn’t need Suguru’s stupid little plan to get Yuji back in his corner.

I won him over, he thinks proudly. All on my own.

“...Gojo-sama?” Yuji is asking when Satoru tunes back in, and he flicks his gaze back over to see his bride staring up at him in confusion. Satoru can’t contain an indulgent smile at the sight. He looks like a little lost puppy, he thinks, and reaches out without thinking to scrub a hand through Yuji’s soft pink hair. 

He expects Yuji to protest somehow; to squawk indignantly and bat his hand away, brows creasing and jaw clenching in anger, in much the same manner Satoru’s starting to get used to seeing from his young bride when he irks him. 

But Yuji doesn’t protest, or slap Satoru’s hand away. Instead he does something far more disconcerting; he stiffens beneath Satoru’s touch, and his pheromones surge—not with anger or indignity, but with the briefest flash of unfiltered, unmistakable…

Want. 

Huh, Satoru thinks. You liked that?

His inner alpha reacts instinctively to the change in Yuji’s scent as he lets himself consider, for a moment, another scenario in which he may have cause to bury his hands in his bride’s hair. 

A scenario in which, for example, they were alone. A scenario in which they were also, perhaps, significantly less clothed. A scenario in which he could meet the arousal in Yuji’s scent with his own. A scenario in which Satoru could put his hands on Yuji in all sorts of places, and see if there was any part of him beneath the layers of that kimono that were even softer to the touch than his hair.

“Satoru-san.” Satoru’s thoughts are interrupted by the soft but insistent tone of his cousin’s voice, and the spell is broken. That’s right, he thinks irritably. No doubt the scent of his rising interest is starting to permeate across the high table. Satoru’s never been one for shame, when it comes to things like this, but in this case he’d rather avoid the audience.  

At least until he can’t avoid them, anymore.

His mood soured, somewhat, by the reminder, Satoru lets his hand fall away, but keeps his eyes on the top of Yuji’s head a moment longer.

Now he thinks on it, he’s actually got a few more serious things he needs to talk to Suguru about. Preferably before the night reaches its inevitable conclusion.

“I’ve got to go meet someone,” he says, keeping as much ire out of his voice as he can. He’s gratified when Yuji raises his head, at the words, and they look each other in the eyes again. 

Gratified and then disappointed, when Yuji’s expression falls into a concerned frown. “But you only just arrived…” Amber eyes flicker downwards, to Satoru’s bowl. “And you’ve barely eaten,” he adds, voice sullen. 

Satoru smirks. “I’ll be back,” he assures Yuji, and stands before his bride can try any harder to change his mind. For a brief second it looks as though Yuji might argue further, but then the boy seems to decide otherwise.

“Yes, Gojo-sama,” he says, his face a mask of forced politeness once more, and looks away. 

Satoru looks down at him a moment longer, eyebrow cocked and his mood a queer mix of annoyed and…endeared, of all things. In theory, he should find Yuji’s churlishness rather irritating, and he supposes he does. But he also knows now that it needn’t always be this way between them. He knows now that there is more to Itadori Yuji—that his bride’s true nature contains so much more than the frosty exterior he props up when he’s unhappy. 

And Satoru knows, too, that he himself has the power to fend off that unhappiness just as much as he has the power to enforce it. And so he finds himself wanting to hang back, just a little bit longer, to soothe his bride’s discontent; to trace a thumb over the crease in Yuji’s brow until it smoothes out, and to lean down and murmur a gentle reassurance or two in Yuji’s ear until he’s forgiven. 

The realisation unsettles him, and he does neither. In fact, he doesn’t say another word to Yuji at all—instead turns to Yuta, who’s watching him with a knowing look in his dark blue eyes as though he’s just seen some hint of Satoru’s mood in his expression and knows exactly what he’s thinking. 

Satoru meets Yuta’s eyes with a flat look of his own, and then jerks his head in Yuji’s direction in a gesture to convey the message, Look after him for me, will you?

Yuta nods. Of course.

With one last glance back at his brooding bride, Satoru leaves.

–-*--

Yuji watches Gojo go out of the corner of his eye, fending off that same strange sense of disappointment he felt earlier, before the feast, at having been deprived of time with his intended once again. 

I should be relieved, he reminds himself. It’s not as if I even—

He blushes, glaring a hole into the patch of table he’s staring down at as he feels the phantom touch of Gojo’s hand on the crown of his head and remembers his embarrassing reaction to the gesture. 

It’s not as if I even wanted to see him, he stubbornly reminds himself. It’s just been a long time since someone treated me like that. In fact, he can’t recall being touched so…familiarly since before he presented, and he certainly never would have expected such an easy gesture of affection from Gojo Satoru, of all people. 

And yet, there it was. It seems Gojo Satoru is as unpredictable a companion in marriage as he is an opponent on the battlefield.

“It’s not your fault,” Okkotsu says, distracting Yuji from his train of thought. Yuji blinks and looks over at Gojo’s cousin, curious.

“Zenin Naoya,” Okkotsu clarifies. “He’s angry about the marriage, but it’s not really anything to do with you.”

Yuji frowns, confused. “Then…” he trails off, then gapes in horror as a thought occurs to him. “Don’t tell me,” he says. “He wants to marry Gojo-sama?”

Okkotsu bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard he near doubles over from the effort, and when he rights himself Yuji catches the hint of tears at the edges of his eyes.

“No,” he manages to get out once he’s recovered. “No, but—well, who knows? He is rather…obsessed, but—ack. No.” He laughs again, a soft chuckle. “I can’t imagine it.”

Yuji can’t help but grin himself, at Okkotsu’s mirth. “All right, then what is it?”

Okkotsu clears his throat. “Well, it’s a long story. And it actually goes back to the marriage treaty between your brother, Sukuna, and Megumi-kun.”

“Oh,” Yuji says. “Wait, what does it have to do with Megumi?”

Okkotsu hesitates. “In the beginning, Naoya never actually approved of your brother’s marriage.”

Yuji raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Wait, really?” he asks. Neither Sukuna nor Megumi ever mentioned such a thing to him. Sukuna, for his part, made a point not to tell Yuji anything in general, but Yuji would have expected Megumi, at least, to share something like this.

Okkotsu nods. “Really. You see, he planned on marrying Megumi-kun himself.”

Yuji’s eyes widen. “Did Megumi know about this?” he asks. “Did Sukuna?” He shudders to think what Sukuna would do if another alpha coveted his mate in his vicinity. Probably rip their throat out, if previous experience is anything to go by. 

But to his shock, Okkotsu answers, “Oh, he knew. Naoya denied him at first—offered him any other omega from the clan. Maki-san heard from her sister—she’s an omega—that he even offered a girl who’d just presented weeks earlier. A girl of only eleven years, at that.”

Yuji grits his teeth, at this last piece of information. He’s heard of child marriages before, of course. Knows they take place within his own realm, to the West, if not as often as here in the East, but the thought still disgusts him. If Sukuna, his own brother, had dared bring a child of eleven home and dared to call her wife, Yuji would have killed him himself. Or died trying.

But Sukuna wouldn’t, Yuji knows. Not because he thought it despicable, as Yuji does, but for the simple reason that, unlike Fushiguro Megumi, it wasn’t to his personal tastes.

“Sukuna wouldn’t’ve backed down,” Yuji says. “Once my brother has his sights set on something, he never backs down.”

Okkotsu hums in agreement. “He didn’t. And I suppose forming an alliance was more important to Naoya in the end, because he agreed to it. But on one condition.” At this Okkotsu eyes Yuji with an intently meaningful look in his eyes. 

Yuji stares at him, still not understanding. “What was the condition?” he asks hesitantly. 

“A trade,” Okkotsu says. “If Sukuna was to have Megumi, then Naoya wanted you.”

Yuji is silent for a moment as his brain catches up to the words he’s just heard, and then he gapes at Okkotsu in disbelief. “But—wait—what—that can’t be!” Because if Sukuna agreed to such a condition, then Yuji wouldn’t be here at the Gojo state right now. Yuji would be with the Zenin instead. And besides—

“I wasn’t even an omega then,” Yuji remembers. “I didn’t present until after Sukuna and Megumi were mated. For all anyone knew I was just a beta, so it’s not like our marriage would bear any children. So why would Naoya even…?”

A cold chill passes over Okkotsu’s expression. “Who knows,” he muses. “But knowing Naoya, his intentions had nothing to do with wanting a successful marriage.”

Yuji gulps, and looks down at his plate of food. There’s still some left, but his appetite seems to have left him, for now. Behind him, he can just faintly hear Choso and Junpei chatting quietly amongst themselves, and he hopes they haven’t heard any of his and Okkotsu’s conversation. He knows how they’d worry, otherwise.

“Thank goodness Sukuna said no,” he murmurs under his breath. Gojo might not be entirely ideal, as a mate, but he’s at least made it clear, by this point in the evening, that he has no intention of punishing Yuji for his brother’s crimes. That he hopes, just as Yuji does, for nothing more and nothing less than a fruitful, peaceful marriage, and an end to the conflict between their clans for good. 

He would not have said those things, Yuji thinks, about respecting my Grandfather, about our children carrying on my name, about wanting to punish Uraume on my behalf, about—

“Actually,” Okkotsu cuts in, interrupting Yuji’s thoughts. “From what I’ve heard, Sukuna said yes.”

Yuji blinks at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Okkotsu smiles at him, his expression sympathetic. “He said yes, and then after you presented, I suspect he…changed his mind.”

Of course, Yuji realises, a sick feeling of betrayal twisting up his stomach. With the worst of the war with the Zenin in its final days, Yuji was of no use to Sukuna as an ally, anymore. His brother made that most clear, when he first informed Yuji of his impending betrothal to Gojo Satoru. So to him it must have meant nothing, to throw his beta baby brother away on a sham marriage, if it meant winning Megumi instead.

But an omega brother was different. An omega brother was useful. And at the time, the conflict with the Gojo clan showed no signs of slowing down. 

Sukuna no doubt saw it as a waste of a valuable asset, to wed Yuji into a family he already had an alliance with. So when the opportunity arose to offer his newly minted omega brother to Gojo Satoru, all consideration of his agreement with Zenin Naoya would have flown from his mind. 

“It seems mad,” Yuji says numbly, turning to Okkotsu, “that you should know all this, and I never heard a word about it.”

Okkotsu smiles, but there’s a bitter twist to it. Still, his tone is not unsympathetic when he answers, “You’ll soon learn that there are no secrets amongst the three great clans, Itadori-kun.”

Yuji swallows, feeling at once relieved and reluctant, to know that as of tonight he’s to be included among those three great clans. If nothing else, he’ll not need to be so in the dark about his own family’s business, anymore. 

At least Gojo-sama has been honest with me, he thinks, a childish resentment he’d long thought outgrown taking hold in his heart at the reminder of his brother’s callous disregard for his wellbeing. 

“So in another life,” Okkotsu concludes, “you might have been marrying Naoya today, and not Satoru-san. So if Naoya comes across as at all…hostile, towards you, that’s why.”

Yuji huffs a sigh, then shakes his head and sits up straight again. In any case, there’s no use dwelling on what’s already been and gone. 

“Even so, it hardly matters now, does it? Surely Naoya-san can see for himself I’m not worth all that ruckus.”

Okkotsu hums, not looking particularly convinced. “My own thoughts on that aside, I’ll leave it up to Satoru-san to decide on just how worth the ruckus you are, Itadori-kun,” he says. “But for Naoya…” He grimaces, a dark cloud seeming to descend over his otherwise gentle expression. “I fear it’s less about you as a person, and more about you as a symbol. He believes a debt is owed, and that debt is you.”

Yuji tsks. “Well I’m not Sukuna’s to give anymore, am I? So he’ll have to take that debt up with my husband.”

Okkotsu smiles, clearly pleased with Yuji’s answer. “To be quite frank with you, Itadori-kun, I can only pray I’m there to see it if he does.”

–-*--

“All right,” Satoru says, once he’s found Suguru and they’ve finished catching up on the current state of Satoru’s marriage. “Let’s run through the witnesses.”

Suguru, arms crossed, leans leisurely against the wall. Lazily, he holds up a hand and juts out his thumb. “The usual suspects, from the council. Kugisaki, Ichida, Takada and Marimoto.”

Satoru nods. “No Gakuganji?”

Suguru shakes his head. “Nope. I suppose even he has his limits, huh.”

Satoru shrugs. “Yaga-sensei liked him for a reason, I guess. Anyway, who’s next?”

Suguru holds up another finger. “There’s Noritoshi-kun, from the Kamo clan.”

Satoru winces. “Poor kid. Bet he got strong-armed into that one.”

Suguru nods sympathetically. “One of the pitfalls of being the family head, I’m afraid. I’m sure he’ll take no pleasure in it.”

Satoru feels his hackles raise, slightly. “He’d better not.” Noritoshi’s young and almost certainly completely inexperienced, but he’s still an alpha. 

Suguru laughs, humming with amusement. “Already so possessive,” he drawls, and continues before Satoru can argue. “Of course Naoya’ll be there, representing the Zenin clan.”

Satoru scowls. Even worse.  “Of course he will. But even he knows better than to try something now, of all times. If he so much as even looks at Yuji—”

Suguru stares flatly at him. “Looking is kind of the point, Satoru. I don’t like him anymore than you do, but be realistic, here.”

Satoru doesn’t dignify this—really very rational and, he supposes, reasonable argument—with a response. “Who else?” he grumbles instead.

“Kusakabe,” Suguru says, holding up a fourth finger.

“Kusakabe?” Satoru demands, incensed. “Why him, of all—”

“Kusakabe the elder,” Suguru clarifies. “Kusakabe the younger is out getting drunk and making bad financial decisions in the mountains somewhere.”

Satoru relaxes. Old man Kusakabe is a decorated war general and one of the Gojo clan’s fiercest allies, but Satoru’s never really cared for his son. Satoru’s not exactly thrilled about Kusakabe the elder watching him consummate his marriage, but at least he’s certain the old beta’s long lost interest in such things himself. Hell, he might even fall asleep. Satoru huffs a soft laugh at the thought.

“Who’s left?” he asks.

“Uraume, of course,” Suguru tells him, then adds, “And I’m sure you two are on wonderful terms at the moment, so that’s good.”

Satoru snorts. “All right. So that just leaves…”

“The representative of the Gojo clan.” Suguru nods, then cocks his head, curious. “Yuta-kun. Are you certain he’s the best choice?”

Satoru shrugs. “He’s the only member of this family I actually trust. He’ll be there to keep the other alpha in check if they get cocky. I don’t want their pheromones bothering Yuji. Getting through this is gonna be hard enough as it is without him clamping his legs shut because some third rate alpha can’t control themselves.”

Suguru’s eyes narrow, considering. “You don’t feel threatened? He’s an alpha too, after all.”

“Who do you think I am?” Satoru chides. “Threatened? Please.”

Suguru laughs. “I didn’t mean that kind of threatened, idiot. I meant, aren’t you worried Itadori-kun might like him more?”

Satoru blinks at him. In truth, the thought never even occurred to him. “No way,” he says after a moment of consideration. “Yuta’s too gloomy for him.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Strange. They seem to be getting along fine right now.” He nods at a point beyond Satoru’s shoulder, and Satoru turns. 

Sure enough, his heir and his bride are engaged in what is, apparently, the conversation of a lifetime, if the gentle smiles and easy laughter being exchanged between them are anything to go by. Satoru watches them a moment, an unfamiliar warmth flickering to life within his chest. 

He feels his lips turn upward into the makings of a smile, but turns back to Suguru before it can take hold.

“That’s just Yuji,” he says, crossing his arms. He shakes his head lightly, tutting with false disapproval. “He really will get along with just anyone, you know.”

Suguru snickers. When Satoru stares at him, confused, he explains. “There may be hope for this marriage then, after all.”

It takes the meaning of the joke—at Satoru’s expense—a second or two to sink in, but when it does, Satoru’s outraged.

“Oi!” he complains, giving Suguru a playful shove to the shoulder. “You’re s’posed to be on my side, asshole!”

–-*--

“Who is that alpha,” Yuji wonders aloud, eyes on the man in the purple kimono.

Beside him, Okkotsu blinks, and follows his gaze. As they watch, the man bursts into laughter at something Gojo’s just said, and he braces a hand on Gojo’s shoulder for support as Yuji’s intended leans into him, naturally, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Yuji feels a strange pull in his heart at the sight, and frowns, looking away. Okkotsu, for his part, casts his own gaze slowly over to Yuji, and then forward again.

“Getou-san is Satoru-san’s best friend,” Okkotsu says quietly, and Yuji’s eyes widen, puzzled. He wracks his brain for any mention of Getou in the exhaustive lessons on the history of the Gojo family dynasty that he was subjected to, and finds nothing.

“Is he a noble?” Yuji asks. “His kimono is very—” He tries to think of how to convey what he means. “Fancy,” he finishes lamely, and Okkotsu laughs.

He has a sweet laugh, Yuji thinks. Kind. It’s the kind of laugh that makes someone feel like they’re being laughed with, instead of laughed at. 

Yuji never would have suspected such a kind person could be born to the Gojo clan. But then, Okkotsu wasn’t raised amongst them from birth like his cousin was.

But in truth, Yuji has to admit; even Gojo Satoru seems capable of kindness, if only a little.

“He’s not noble,” Okkotsu says then, and Yuji startles, his train of thought broken. Okkotsu must sense his discontent, because only seconds later Yuji feels the alpha’s comforting pheromones settle over him like a warm, soft blanket. “He comes from a family of merchants, and the Council hates him.”

“Why?” Yuji asks, frowning. The Council sure do hate a lot of people, he reflects privately. He doesn’t have to wonder too long to guess what they think of him—not that he cares.

I’m here to impress one person, and one person only.

Okkotsu shrugs. “I don’t know. I just know that he and Satoru-san were inseparable, when they were our age, and then Getou-san moved away and they’ve hardly seen each other since.” He smiles, gentle and maybe just a little bit sad. “Satoru-san pretends like he doesn’t care, but I think he’s very happy Getou-san’s here.”

Yuji returns his gaze to the two alpha, again, as they lean into each other’s space with all the familiarity of two people who have known and loved each other for well over a decade. 

Inseparable.

Yuji’s own best friends are sitting behind him, completely within reach, and yet. And yet, the sight of Gojo with his fills Yuji with a sense of loneliness he can’t quite make sense of.

Will he ever look at me like that? he wonders, watching the way the light dances in Gojo’s eyes as he listens to his friend talk. Will he ever drop everything and everyone to seek me out at a party, like that? Because Yuji remembers Satoru’s words from earlier, when he dropped their conversation.

I’ve got to go meet someone.

It’s clear now just who that someone was.

Yuji tries to stamp down a fresh feeling of inadequacy that threatens to settle over his spirit. Why should he care, after all, that his husband would rather spend the evening with a friend than with the bride he only met mere hours ago? Why should he care that they were just on the verge of getting to know each other better before they were interrupted, yet again? And why should he care, even, that the spectacle of their consummation creeps ever closer and he feels, at this moment, as distant from his spouse as ever?

The heavy feeling in his stomach soon surges to his head, his ears positively roaring with it until he starts to feel dizzy and feverishly hot.

Yuji realises, to his horror, that he’s about to be sick.

“Excuse me,” he says, and abruptly stands. Okkotsu looks up at him, surprised.

“Are you all right, Itadori-kun? You look pale.”

Yuji nods, hastily. “I’m all right.” He bows. “Thank you, Okkotsu-sama. I just need some air, is all.” With that, he turns from the table and starts to walk away. 

“Yuji,” calls Choso from behind him, and Yuji pauses and turns to face his friend. Choso and Junpei are watching him with clear concern in their eyes, looking as if they’re about to rise themselves, but Yuji hurriedly plants a reassuring smile on his face and sends them what he hopes is a cheery wave.

“I’m just stepping out for a moment,” he tells them. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s off towards the other end of the table before they can think to answer, stumbling only slightly over the long train of his kimono in his haste. Vision spinning, he descends the steps, ignoring the stares of the other feast-goers at his table as he does so, and scans anxiously across the crowd for an exit. When he spots a path around the northern edge of the room that seems promising enough, he shoots off, darting and weaving around guests as best he can on pure instinct.

Even Yuji’s finely honed instincts fail him occasionally, however, and he’s only about two thirds of the way through the room when he miscalculates and collides with the solid frame of another guest, the force of the collision so great he’s thrown backward and onto the floor.

As he falls he’s vaguely aware of the sudden clatter and rattle of something small and wooden hitting the floor ahead of him. Megumi’s gift, he thinks, concerned for the split second before he hits it himself, and then—

“Ow,” he mutters, his palms and his ass smarting from catching the brunt of the fall. He looks up at the person he’s run into to see a mighty mountain of an alpha glaring down at him.

“Oi, watch—” a gruff voice starts, alpha pheromones flaring, and then cuts off as the person must realise whom he’s talking to. “Oh, my apologies.” A thick, meaty hand descends, as if from the heavens, and before Yuji knows it he’s being pulled back up to his feet by the sheer strength of the man’s grip on his arm.

The man’s covered in scars, his long hair a wild black mane barely tamed by the cord he’s used to tie most of it back. But even Yuji can tell at a glance that his attire is expensive, his kimono layered in deep green and plum red.

The alpha clears his throat, his eyes mildly apologetic. “Sorry about that, boy. Try to be more careful next time.”

“Jinichi-san,” chides a voice from seemingly nowhere, and Yuji startles before its owner steps out from behind the alpha—Jinichi—and shows himself to be a much smaller and younger man, a pale omega with dark hair just as ragged but skin far less weathered with age. “Surely you can see he’s learned his lesson without you lecturing him.”

Jinichi only grunts in acknowledgement, so the omega continues, addressing Yuji directly. “Are you all right, Itadori-kun?”

Yuji nods, embarrassed. “I’m fine, thank you,” he says, remembering his manners as he dusts his kimono off. He’s already resigned himself to them having seen the stain at this point, but he hopes they won’t think anything of it. He instinctively feels around for the wood carving, and then when he doesn’t feel it remembers—

“Ah,” he says, eyes darting around at his feet, “I lost my—”

“Looking for this?” chimes a third voice, its tone one of dangerous malice, from somewhere further out on Yuji’s left. Yuji follows the sound and quickly finds its source in a familiar face, his stomach sinking at the sight.

The blond haired alpha of the Zenin clan, from earlier. His green eyes narrowed and a cold smirk etched across his face. Yuji feels his hair stand on end as his inner omega cowers in the face of the sheer malevolence in this alpha’s aura. He glances down, avoiding eye contact on instinct, and that’s when he sees it.

On the floor, pinned beneath the alpha’s boot. Megumi’s carving of the wolf, symbol of the Zenin clan.

“There,” he breathes, relieved. “Yes, that’s mine,” he says, and starts forward, but the alpha bends down before he can reach him and snatches the carving up himself.

“How bold,” he drawls, looking down at it with calculating eyes before he flicks his gaze up and fixes them on Yuji, instead. “That a member of a nobody family such as yourself would dare to keep the symbol of my clan’s pride on his person.”

Yuji stiffens, defences raising. “It’s mine,” he repeats, and then cringes internally at the childishness in his tone. “It was a gift,” he clarifies, “from a friend.” He refuses to divulge further.

The alpha cocks his head, smile growing, if possible, even frostier. “From Zenin Megumi, perhaps?” he asks, voice dangerous.

Yuji feels a shiver travel down his spine as he realises, with very little room for doubt, whom this alpha must be. But—

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” he answers, stubbornly defiant. “But that carving was given to me by my friend, Fushiguro Megumi.” At some point, Yuji notices then, Jinichi and his omega companion must have made their escape, as he is now alone here in this corner of the room with Zenin Naoya.

Zenin Naoya who, at the utterance of Megumi’s name from Yuji’s mouth, clenches his fist so hard around the wood carving that it cracks, beneath his fingers.

A hot vein of anger shoots through Yuji’s blood at the sight, but before he can do or say anything Naoya’s crossed the distance between them and crowded Yuji against the wall.

“Hm,” he says, his eyes flicking scrutinisingly up and down Yuji’s frame. “You really are quite underwhelming up close. Ugly, even.”

Yuji scowls up at him. “I thank you for your feedback, Naoya-sama,” he says coldly. “But I don’t believe I asked.”

Naoya sneers. “For one who knows to whom he is speaking, you really are rather chatty, aren’t you?” he says. “I do hope Satoru-kun beats that out of you. In the East it’s considered most unseemly, for an omega to speak back to an alpha out of turn.”

Yuji grits his teeth. Did Megumi really have to live under the same roof as this asshole all those years? he thinks, and shoots back, “As far as I can see, Naoya-sama, it was my turn to speak.”

“How positively classless,” Naoya says. “I suppose it’s only expected, given your…background. Lowborn, just as Satoru-kun likes them.”

Yuji’s fists clench at his sides. This is the second time now, that Naoya’s made some snide comment about his family. And Yuji wouldn’t be so bothered if it weren’t for the memory of his Grandfather, a proud soldier and a hero to his people. A man who lived a long life ravaged by war and famine, and one who lost everything in his final years, left without even a single grain of rice to his name thanks to the machinations of men like Zenin Naoya.

“My background is none of your business,” Yuji snaps. He reaches for the wolf in Naoya’s hand. “Now give me back my—”

Casual as anything, Naoya snatches it away. “I suppose you think Satoru-kun finds it charming,” he drawls, as though Yuji hadn’t spoken. “The way you talk back and refuse to bare your throat to your betters.”

Yuji ignores him and tries again to wrest the carving from the man’s hand, reaching further this time.

Naoya grabs his wrist and holds it firm, thumb digging a faint bruise into the skin. “You should be careful,” he says, leaning in to whisper as Yuji freezes in his grip. “Satoru-kun may play the fool, but he’s far more dangerous than you think.” He must sense the new tension in Yuji’s pheromones, at this, because when he leans back Yuji sees his mouth upturned into a loathsome smirk once more.

“You’ll learn soon enough,” he says smugly. “Once he’s fucked a few heirs into you, I don’t see you lasting much longer in his—"

A loud slam rings out from the wall beside Yuji’s head, and he flinches, eyes widening in alarm as they follow the source of the sound to find none other than Gojo Satoru himself, his large palm braced against the wall as his arm cages Yuji in. When Yuji glances up at his face, it’s to see him smiling, but his eyes are alight with cold fury.

“Naoya-kun,” he greets, voice deceptively jovial. “How lovely to see you again.” His eyes flick downward, to where Naoya’s fingers are still wrapped around Yuji’s wrist. His alpha scent surges with such violent rage Yuji fights the urge to curl up into the foetal position, even though it isn’t directed towards him at all.

Naoya releases Yuji’s wrist as if burned, and takes a hasty step back. His own scent flares defensively and “Satoru-kun,” he answers, tone equally pleasant and equally false. “Same to you. Congratulations on your marriage.”

“Ah,” Gojo says, then cocks his head curiously, empty smile still writ across his face. He looks like a bird of prey, Yuji realises, eyeing him warily. Looking down on some poor rodent he’s about to swoop in on and kill. “So you are aware.”

Naoya’s smile falters. “Aware of…what?”

Gojo’s answering grin is razor sharp. “That this is my marriage,” he answers. He steps away from the wall, arm falling back to his side as he steps deftly between Yuji and Naoya. “That this is my wedding.” He gestures behind himself, at Yuji. “And that this is my bride. Not yours.”

Naoya tsks. “What are you getting at?” he growls, all false charm gone from his voice.

“Nothing,” Gojo reassures him. “I just think it’s awfully bold of you, to touch another alpha’s spouse so familiarly.” He shrugs, exuding an air of insincere nonchalance. “You should be more careful. See—" The smile drops from his face as fast as the nonchalance drops from his voice, to be replaced by pure menace. “I’m sure you can imagine what might happen if I misunderstand.”

Naoya scowls darkly at him, scent flickering angrily. Yuji’s eyes flit nervously between them, hoping privately that a fight isn’t about the break out at his wedding reception. Though at this point, he supposes, why wouldn’t it?

“How unexpected,” Naoya says, eyes flitting to Yuji and then back again, to rest on Gojo. “That you’ve already grown so attached to Itadori Yuji-kun.” He smirks again, eyes cruel as they look down on Yuji. “And here I’d heard you weren’t interested in the boy at all.”

Yuji resists the urge to poke his tongue out at him.

“Oh, really?” Gojo muses, unfazed. “You should fire your spies, then. They’re feeding you outdated information.” He places a hand protectively on Yuji’s shoulder. “Not only am I interested, but I’m sure our marriage will be most fruitful.” It’s his turn to smirk now, as he adds, “Just like Sukuna and Megumi-kun’s.”

Naoya flinches and for the briefest moment, an expression of incandescent rage passes across his face.

“Have you heard, by the way?” Gojo continues, evidently not done with him. “How fruitful their marriage has been? I just found out tonight: Megumi-kun’s pregnant.” He smiles. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Yuji frowns, not appreciating the way Gojo seems so content to use his friend’s private business to win a fight. But he can’t deny it does the job. Naoya’s thin veneer of control crumbles, in wake of this news, and his scent flares dangerously hostile, green eyes seeming to momentarily glow with violent intent.

“Bastard,” he spits. “You dare—”

But Gojo isn’t having it. “Shut up,” he says, voice pitched low and dangerous as he matches the fire in Naoya’s eyes with his own. “And fuck off. I’m sick of looking at you.”

For a moment it looks as if Naoya might push the issue, and Yuji really will have to step in and break up a fight between two alpha just like he used to have to do with Sukuna’s soldiers, back in the day, but then the moment passes, and Naoya’s scent simmers down to a sharp irritation, at most.

“If you insist,” he says, and waits until Gojo’s scent has calmed itself before he turns to leave.

Yuji’s still not finished with him, though.

“Oi,” he calls, holding his hand out. “You’ve still got my wolf. Give it back.”

Gojo blinks down at him, surprised. Naoya’s eyes narrow, and he seems as if he’s weighing the pros and cons of refusing, but he ultimately must decide in favour of acquiescence.

“Of course,” he says, all simpering sweetness though he had nothing but vile words for Yuji only minutes earlier. He steps forward and places the wolf delicately in Yuji’s hand, making sure to let his touch linger a beat or two longer than necessary. Yuji grimaces, feeling Gojo’s eyes on their hands like a knife against his throat.

“Thank you for showing me,” Naoya says, letting go at last as he turns to finally leave. He holds Yuji’s gaze as he finishes, “And I’ll look forward to seeing even more of you tonight, Yuji-kun.”

Yuji peers at him, puzzled, but he’s gone with one last meaningful glance in Gojo’s direction before Yuji can fully understand the meaning of the statement. And then he catches the unmistakeable murderous intent in Gojo’s scent, and his cheeks light up in shame as he realises.

He’s going to be there, Yuji thinks numbly, swallowing down a fresh wave of nausea. At the consummation.

--*--

When Satoru arrived back at his table, minutes earlier, to find his erstwhile bride nowhere to be seen, he initially reacted with nothing but benign calm.

“He wasn’t feeling well,” Yuta explained, tone apologetic. “He said he was just going outside to get some air.”

Satoru nodded. It wasn’t ideal, for Yuji to be out of his and his allies’ sight for so long, but it wasn’t unbearable. He determined to wait, there at the base of the dais, until he spotted Yuji on his way back, and to greet him then so they could ascend the stairs together.

But then he happened to glance over, by complete chance, at the north wing of the hall, and he saw Yuji cornered by none other than—

Zenin Naoya.

That son of a bitch.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed, scanning the scene for any untoward behaviour and finding none. His brows drew together into a frown. It seemed even Naoya wasn’t shameless enough to lay a hand on another alpha’s intended, but he was standing awfully close. Surely, Yuji would still hear him fine with more distance between them.

And then Satoru’s gaze shifted again to Yuji himself, and he felt his eyebrows raise in surprise.

Most omega, when faced with the attentions of an unfamiliar, overbearing alpha, tended to shrink themselves—eyes averted, bodies cringing away. Itadori Yuji hasn’t shown himself as the type to engage in such things so far, but Satoru’s just assumed that’s because he knew he could get away with pushing Satoru’s buttons in particular.

But looking at his bride in that moment, he saw Yuji’s amber eyes fixed, wary but steadfast, upon Naoya’s own, and though it could not be more evident that he was holding himself as far enough away from Naoya as he could get when pressed into a corner, there wasn’t an ounce of shrinking behaviour to be seen.

Huh, Satoru thought. I suppose I’m not the only one he’s capable of standing up to, then. 

Strangely, the thought irritated him, and he was already considering striding over and interrupting the conversation when he saw Naoya reach out, bold as anything, and wrap his hand around Yuji’s wrist.

A jagged vein of iced cold fury fractured itself through Satoru’s heart, and he was at Yuji’s side within the span of a second.

Now, Satoru watches Naoya’s back as he departs and contemplates whether Yuji—or any of his friends, for that matter—would forgive him for shedding some alpha blood at his wedding reception. Surely they could make an allowance for him, just this once? It’s not like anyone would miss Naoya, after all.

He's distracted from his murderous train of thought when he looks down to see Yuji holding that strange object—my wolf, he called it—in his hands, expression forlorn as he turns it back and forth.

“What is it?” Satoru asks, and he leaves it up to Yuji to figure out if he means, What’s wrong? or What’s that thing you’re holding?

Yuji assumes the latter. “A gift from a friend,” he says, voice sullen. “Naoya broke it.” He shows Satoru the large crack that’s formed, along the wolf’s flank.

Satoru watches him a moment, battling with himself, then says, “Don’t look so sad, Yuji-kun. We can fix it.”

Yuji blinks up at him, so sweetly gormless Satoru can’t even find his next question irritating. “Can…can you carve wood, Gojo-sama?”

Satoru scoffs. “’Course I can,” he says. “And I bet I could make it better than your friend, too.”

Yuji scowls, hurt lancing through his scent, and Satoru winces. Oops, he thinks. “Anyway,” he says, aiming for a change in subject. “Yuta said you went out to get air. Are you feeling any better now?”

Yuji smiles nervously. “Um,” he says. “I guess…a little? But I never actually made it outside.” He turns his head to look longingly at the exit, and Satoru takes advantage of the movement to admire the handsome curve of his neck.

“Oh well,” Yuji sighs, turning back. “Let’s just go back to the table. I mean, if you want to, of course. I don’t feel like I’m gonna—” He grimaces, changing track. “I don’t feel sick anymore. So it’s fine.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, watching his little bride curiously. He looks back at the table, and the hustle and bustle of its occupants, and wonders if it’s really fresh air that Yuji wants, or something else.

Even for someone like Yuji, it must be overwhelming, he thinks. Being surrounded by all these strangers. Satoru knows he’d hate it, if he were in Yuji’s shoes. Knows he did hate it, back when he was a brat and couldn’t get out of social obligations as smoothly as he can now.

Back then, Satoru familiarised himself with all the places a person could hide, if they wanted to be left alone for awhile. Reflecting on some of those places, Satoru gets an idea.

“Hey, Yuji,” he says, and when Yuji glances up at him, nods over at the open doorway. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for Yuji’s response before he starts walking, cutting a path through the throng of guests with ease. A few of them try to speak to him, but he shoots them down easily enough with a withering stare.

Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something? He looks back to see, of course, that Yuji’s following him, and smiles.

Good boy.

“Gojo-sama,” Yuji says, speeding up to a trot to keep up with Satoru’s long strides. “Excuse me but—where are we going?”

Satoru grins down at him. “If you’re going to be living on the Gojo family estate from now on,” he explains, “then you’ll need to familiarise yourself first with the Gojo family grounds.”

And I know just the place, Satoru thinks, where you can have all the fresh air and privacy you need.

Chapter Text

After Yuji’s followed his husband through the northern exit and they’ve emerged out into the cool, blissfully refreshing open air of the night, Gojo glances down at him and asks, “What did he say to you?”

Yuji—mind presently focused on inhaling the air as deeply into his lungs as he can—doesn’t immediately ascertain his meaning. “Hm?” he asks, eyes shut as he enjoys the feel of the breeze on his face.

“Naoya,” Gojo says, voice amused. “I saw the two of you talking. What did he say to you before I got there?”

Yuji stiffens, eyes flitting back open as he tries to remember the full breadth of the conversation. He doesn’t think Naoya said anything especially of note, but he knows, too, that there are years of bad blood between the Zenin clan and Gojo’s own, and he has no interest in inadvertently inciting more through his own fumbling account of a conversation Gojo was never supposed to hear anyway.

At his hesitation, Yuji detects a faint hint of anger in the undercurrent of Gojo’s scent, and his husband stops walking to face him properly.

“Come now,” he says, voice light but laced, Yuji detects, with the promise of offence if Yuji doesn’t answer him soon. “Am I to be your alpha, or him? You’ve no reason to keep his secrets.” Those blue eyes regard him shrewdly, devoid of warmth.

Yuji frowns, annoyed, and averts his gaze.

Satoru-kun may play the fool, but he’s far more dangerous than you think.

“I’m not keeping any secrets, Gojo-sama,” Yuji says lowly, after another long moment of silence between them. “He didn’t say anything interesting. Only some nonsense about me being lowborn.” And ugly , Yuji recalls privately, but he’s hardly going to share that with Gojo.

“Oh?” Gojo says, voice peaked with interest. Around them, his scent still flickers with agitation, but it’s calmed slightly from the thinly veiled anger of earlier. “And what did he have to say about that, I wonder?”

Eyes fixed firmly on the ground, Yuji decides he may as well tell him. “Just that my speaking back to him was to be expected, given my background. And something about lowborn being—” A pause. “Just the way you like them?” His tone grows hesitant, at this last part.

Gojo scoffs. “Lowborn or not, at least I don’t have to pay for their attention like he does.”

That same unpleasant feeling from before forms in Yuji’s stomach, at the confirmation that his betrothed keeps any lovers at all, though of course it should come as no surprise—Gojo is ten years his senior, unmated and an alpha in his prime. How could he not have lovers? Yuji said it to Megumi himself, weeks ago. The thought smarts, all the same.

It smarts even more when Yuji finds himself wondering whether it will change, now that they’re to be mated.

Once he’s fucked a few heirs into you…

His mind conjures up the image of Getou Suguru, again, and how very close the other alpha had been standing to Yuji’s husband in the dining hall, and he feels—

There’s the cool touch of a finger at his chin, and Yuji looks up, startled, to see that Gojo’s moved right in close. There’s now barely an arm's length between them, and Gojo’s hand has already bridged the gap.

Gojo’s eyes regard him with a cool but genuine interest. His scent has calmed completely, and Yuji’s surprised to find it’s settled now into something that could almost pass as soothing. 

“You’ve an unusual temper,” Gojo tells him. “For an omega.”

Yuji stares at him, uncomprehending. Unusual? he thinks, mildly offended. Is he insulting me?

Gojo cocks his head. “But what did you think?” he asks. “About what Naoya-kun had to say.”

About your lovers? Yuji thinks, Or about my birth?

He opts for the latter. He doesn’t feel quite in the mood to talk about Gojo’s lovers, now or at any other point tonight and for the foreseeable future.

“I…” he says, then at Gojo’s raised eyebrows, continues, “I didn’t like it. Don’t like it. He doesn’t know anything about me, or where I’ve come from. All he knows is I’m not noble, like him.”

Gojo nods. “True enough,” he agrees. “And what’s so good about being a noble anyway?” He smiles down at Yuji then, and Yuji’s surprised to see a hint of genuine affection behind it. “You’ll learn soon. It’s boring as Hell.”

And just like that, the air settles between them. Gojo takes a half-step away, gesturing for Yuji to follow.

“Come on,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you, and if we don’t hurry they’re bound to come out here and drag us back inside.”

Yuji laughs a little, at the image, and he wonders if he’s only imagining the way Gojo’s grin seems to grow wider at the sound.

“You’re not going to walk me through all of the grounds, are you?” he asks, hastening his pace to keep up.

Gojo’s grin definitely grows wider at that. “Why not? You used to march on the frontlines, didn’t you?” He glances down. “A relaxing stroll through the estate should be nothing in comparison.”

Yuji huffs. “That was different, Gojo-sama,” he complains. “I didn’t have to contend with this—” He gestures at his kimono. “Or—” He gestures back at the hall, and all the demanding and gossiping guests within. “ That.”

Gojo barks out a laugh. “Too right, Yuji-kun. When it comes to—” He gestures himself, managing to make it look far more elegant and all-encompassing than Yuji’s in the process. “This and that, I’d take a days’ long infantry march any day.”

The next few minutes pass in peaceful, amicable silence, though Yuji can’t quite keep his mind off the feast, wondering if many of their guests noticed them leaving together and whether it’s technically appropriate, that they be out and wandering the grounds unchaperoned. 

Surely it’s fine, right? he reasons. Gojo-sama already said as much himself, to Kugisaki-sama. We’re already married, so there’s no scandal to be found.

Right?

In any case, he wills his agitation not to show in his scent, not wanting Gojo to notice.

“We’re here,” Gojo calls to him, and Yuji shakes off his anxiety like a dog fresh out of water, and looks up to see—

A garden.

No—a field. A field brimming with flowers, as far as the eye can see. 

Hundreds of them. No, thousands. They’ve reached the top of one of the large hills bordering the Gojo estate, with a clear view of all the green, rolling hills beyond, and Yuji feels as if he’s staring at a sea, at the entire ocean of flowers, their colours burnished in the soft gold light of summer fireflies as they drift dreamily in the air above them.

“Ah, they’re nicer in the daylight,” Gojo says, and brings a hand up to rub at the back of his neck in a gesture that could almost be bashful . “But you can see, right?”

Yuji nods, in quiet awe at the view before him. Gojo’s right, of course—it’s hard to make out any but the most vibrant of colours, despite the light of the fireflies and beyond that, the soft silvery light of the moon, but even with that being said—

“They’re beautiful,” he says, as the sight casts his mind back in time.

It’s just like back home .

Yuji’s not thinking of the home that was Sukuna’s estate, but the home that came before that. Those sweet early years of his childhood, when Sukuna was only the faintest shadow of a distant figure in his life. When Yuji’s whole world was nothing more than a modest house on a fertile patch of land, out in the distant country, and the ornery Grandfather who lived with him there. There were fields of wildflowers all over, just like this one, and Yuji whiled away the hours of every day, wandering and playing amongst them.

He played on his own, mostly, or with children who lived in the village nearby. But every now and then, on a warm summer evening like this one and with the long hard work of the day finally done, Yuji managed to convince old Itadori Wasuke to join him.

Grandfather would chase him through tall thick swashes of soft sweet colour, and when inevitably Yuji’s tiny, chubby little legs couldn’t outrun him anymore, he’d pounce on him like a bear, catch him and throw him, laughing, into the air. 

Sukuna’s estate had its own private garden, of course, but it was nothing like this. He hasn’t seen anything like this since the day Grandfather died—the day Sukuna arrived and dragged Yuji, kicking and screaming, from the only life he’d ever known.

Yuji feels the sting of tears at the back of his eyes, and hastily blinks them back.

Grandfather’s farm is long gone. In his final years it was all he had, and it’s as much a pile of ashes now as the man who owned it—one among many casualties, razed and salted in Ryomen Sukuna’s conflict with the Gojo clan.

Yuji takes a long, deep breath in through his nose, and lets the memories fade into the background. He can feel Gojo’s eyes on him, and he realises he’s been quiet a little longer than proprietary expects.

“Um,” he says, and surreptitiously wipes a hand over his eyes before meeting his husband’s gaze. “Do you think—could we get closer?”

Gojo doesn’t answer right away, his expression oddly considering, but it’s soon replaced by a roguish grin.

“It’s my family’s land, isn’t it?” he asks, a wry glint in his bright blue eyes. “Who do you think’s going to stop us?”

--*--

It’s something of a steep walk, down to the base of the hill, made no easier by the long hem of Yuji’s kimono. Despite his best efforts, it seems intent on tripping him over and, only steps away from blissfully flat ground, the evil garment finally gets its wish.

It happens in less than a second—his foot gets caught in an errant piece of fabric, mid-step, and the sudden halt throws his body forward.

To Yuji’s mortification this means, of course, that he careens directly into his husband.

“Oh,” Yuji squeaks, when the second has passed and he realises—by the solid warmth he can feel pressed against his face, and the near overpowering musk of alpha in his nostrils—that he has, indeed, landed in Gojo’s arms. “Ah,” he adds, and chances a glance upwards.

“Oh my,” Gojo says, voice cast low and cheeky—Yuji hears the rumble of it, in his ears. “You Westerners really are quite forward, aren’t you?”

Yuji feels the heat of his blush so deeply in his skin it may as well be in his bones, by this point, and rapidly backs away, almost managing to trip again in the process.

“I’m sorry, Gojo-sama—” he starts, bending into a quick bow but Gojo only smirks, waving the apology away.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Yuji. I’m only playing. More importantly, look!” He gestures at the endless waves of flowers all around them. “Even more beautiful up close, aren’t they?”

Despite himself, Yuji smiles, soft, and follows Gojo’s directive; craning his neck all around, to get as much of a look he can at the untethered, chaotically lovely blend of colours, shapes and sizes. Gojo’s right. They are more beautiful up close, and Yuji’s delighted at the chance to smell them now, too.

It’s at this point that he notices that now his nose isn’t buried in Gojo’s chest, he actually can’t smell him much at all. The realisation confuses him, and then he remembers. The flowers. Their perfume must be overpowering his senses, and maybe even Gojo’s, too. 

Yuji finds it oddly calming. It reminds him of what feels like forever ago now, when he was just a beta and didn’t have to worry about things like how his emotions influence his scent, whom he would have to marry, or whether it’s okay to be caught outside alone with—

He stiffens, flushes, and pushes that thought firmly away.

Gojo uncovers an enormously large fallen log, and with a quick glance at Yuji, takes a seat at the edge of it. 

Yuji hesitates.

“There’s plenty of room,” Gojo says, and pats the spot next to him. 

After a moment of dithering, Yuji hastily lowers himself down, trying to sit with as much space between them as the log allows while Gojo watches him, clearly amused. 

“You’re very hot and cold, aren’t you,” he muses. At Yuji’s confused look, he smirks. “One moment you’re throwing yourself into my arms—”

“That was not—”

“—and the next, you won’t even sit beside me. Even though we were just sitting beside each other at dinner. Did you forget already?” He chuckles, as though this is all some big joke, and Yuji glares at him. “That hurts, Yuji. Stop playing games with me, okay?”

Yuji ignores him, and stays right where he is. He looks down and fusses briefly with his sleeves, making sure to keep the tell-tale stain on his hip covered as he places them in his lap. 

A quick sideways glance at Gojo, and Yuji sees that his gaze is cast upwards now, towards the stars.

“It is beautiful here,” he says. “I used to come all the time, when I was younger.” He shoots Yuji a sly smile. “It’s quiet, and if I hid well enough, the servants could never seem to find me.”

Yuji can’t hold in a soft laugh, at that. “Your poor servants,” he jokes, and Gojo laughs too.

“Don’t feel so sorry for them. They’re all in my family’s pocket.” At what he must see in Yuji’s expression, at this, he adds, “Though I suppose it’s not their fault my family is insufferable.” He sighs, his eyes falling closed as they settle back into silence, for a little while, and enjoy the night air in relative peace.

“You know, Yuji-kun,” he says after a while, voice strangely thoughtful. “It didn’t used to be like this. The mating bond, I mean.”

Yuji turns properly and stares at him, confused. “What?”

Gojo smiles. It’s a soft, melancholic smile, quite unlike the others Yuji’s grown accustomed to seeing from him.

“You know—the rules. The politics. All the pointless structure and ceremony. Back in the old days, people just bonded because they wanted to.”

Comprehension dawns gradually, and Yuji feels an injured pull at his heart.

“Oh,” he says quietly, because he doesn’t know what else someone is expected to say when their future mate all but explicitly tells them he doesn’t want to bond with them.

It doesn’t matter, Yuji tells himself stubbornly, exasperated that it even bothers him at all. It doesn’t matter, whether he wants it or even whether you want it. It’s going to happen regardless.

He’s thankful again, for the scent of the flowers, and for the work it must be doing to conceal his true feelings when he says, “Must’ve been nice, for them.”

Gojo leans back, slightly, resting his weight on his hands as he lets out a mild, put-upon sigh. “I like to think so,” he says. “Back when I was your age, I thought that’d be the life for me. I wanted to take a lover my family didn’t approve of—” He shoots Yuji a conspiratorial grin. “Lowborn, you know.” 

Despite himself, Yuji laughs, though he feels like being sick again at the thought of just who that lowborn lover might have been, and whether Gojo still knows them now. He wants to ask, it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask, but instead, “I’ll bet,” he says. “That is the way you like them, after all.”

Gojo’s answering laugh is a rich, deep chuckle, and Yuji realises it’s the first time he’s heard such a laugh from him. And then he continues, the shadow of a distant, fond smile on his face. “I always thought we’d run away together, my mate and I; that we’d make love and exchange marks under the night sky. I had this romantic notion that we’d forge our bond somewhere far away from all this. Somewhere secret beneath the stars, where we’d never have to worry about what the rest of the world wanted from us.” He snorts. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

Yuji looks away. “No,” he says softly, and directs his own gaze up at the stars too. “It’s not stupid.” A nervous intake of breath, and Yuji speaks again. “It’s okay if you still want that, Gojo-sama. I’ll…” He swallows, eyes burning. “I’ll understand, if you want to have a life like that. Even after we’re mated, I know you can’t—couldn’t b-bond with another, of course, but if you want to—to do other things with someone else, then—”

“What?” Gojo says, quiet reverie broken as he turns to look at Yuji in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Yuji startles, eyes widening. “I…I mean if you want to take other lovers, Gojo-sama.” At the look of disbelief in Gojo’s eyes, he quickly continues. “I know this marriage isn’t what you wanted, and—and it sounds like you already have a, a lover you’d rather be bonded to, s-so—”

“Hold on,” Gojo interjects, waving his arm to cut Yuji off. “Since when? I never said anything like that.”

Yuji frowns at him. “You just said —”

Gojo rolls his eyes. “I was talking about the past, Yuji-kun. How I felt years ago.”

“But—”

“And I wasn’t even talking about a specific person. I was talking about the concept—”

“The concept?”

“The concept of loving whoever I wanted, and bonding with whoever I wanted. Don’t they teach you anything in those Western schools? I’m trying to tell you—”

“Are you calling me stupid?” Yuji cuts him off, indignant. He remembers earlier in the night, and the patronising manner in which Gojo asked him if he could read.

Gojo opens his mouth as if to say Yes, I am, and what are you going to do about it? , but he must see some of the hurt in Yuji’s eyes, then, because instead he deflates slightly, and says something else.

“I’m calling you mistaken.” His voice is calm. Straightforward, with none of the outrage of earlier. “Yuji,” he says. “I’m not interested in taking any lovers, all right?” He laughs, but it sounds more strained than truly amused. “It’s clearly enough effort just tending to one mate .”

He means it as a joke, but Yuji can’t laugh. “What about Getou-san?” he asks, voice quiet with the shame of wanting—of needing to ask. “At the feast, the two of you…and Okkotsu-sama said…”

Gojo laughs, more genuinely now. “Oh, I see,” he says, tone infuriatingly dismissive. “So that’s what this is about.”

Yuji blushes, arms crossed defensively in front of himself as he moves as far away from his husband as humanly possible. “You don’t have to say it so casually,” he mutters sullenly, and then jumps when Gojo slides across the log until they’re right beside each other.

As Yuji stares up at him in confusion, he leans over to plant two warm palms at either side of Yuji’s face.

“Yuji-kun,” he says, voice intently serious as he holds Yuji’s gaze with his own. “Listen. I don’t know what Yuta-kun told you, but Suguru is my best friend. There’s nothing going on between us beyond that. Hasn’t been anything going on for years.” He pauses, and seems to consider his words carefully before continuing. “And if this bonding goes ahead, there won’t ever be. Not ever again. Okay?”

Yuji gazes up at him, stunned, and watches the way the warm light of the fireflies reflect off the blue in his eyes. His eyes that shine with a sincerity Yuji knows he’s never seen from him before.

So, “Okay,” Yuji answers, his voice a soft exhalation into the air between them. He nods, and says it again, more certain this time. “Okay.”

Satisfied with this, Gojo lets him go, and leans back again with a sigh. Stretches his arms out high above his head, and casts his gaze across the flower gardens once more.

Yuji knows he would do best to let things lie now, and enjoy a few more peaceful minutes of silence and solitude with his husband. But after a long deliberation, he decides to say something that’s been on his mind since the start of this conversation. No, he decides to say something that’s been on his mind since the moment they exchanged their vows, hours ago.

“Gojo-sama.” He speaks, tone cautious. Hesitant. 

“Mm?”

“Did you mean what you said at the wedding?” he asks, his pulse roaring in his ears in anticipation of Gojo’s answer. “About the consummation, tonight.” He looks over and sees Gojo watching him, eyes and expression intent. Focussed. It makes Yuji’s voice tremble, a little, as he clarifies. “Do you truly mean to… defile me?”

The slightest fraction of a flinch passes across Gojo’s face, and then he answers, “No.” He frowns, and looks away. “I never—no. It was a foolish thing to say.”

Yuji exhales, relieved. 

“I have no intention,” Gojo continues, voice sombre, “of hurting you at all tonight, Yuji-kun.”

Yuji feels his face heat as stares at Gojo in profile, for a moment, admiring the line of his jaw; the cut of his cheekbones, and the way the light of the moon casts silver in his hair. He really is so beautiful, he thinks, and can’t help but feel shabby and plain in comparison, for all the finery in his dress. 

It’s unfair. I hope that—

“I heard what Naoya said to you, too, by the way,” Gojo murmurs, cutting off Yuji’s train of thought. When Yuji doesn’t respond, he looks over at him and clarifies, “About heirs and such, and not needing you once I’ve got them.”

Yuji’s face flushes hot with shame. Naoya’s language wasn’t nearly so delicate. “I see,” he says stiffly.

“I don’t want us to think of it like that,” Gojo continues. “A mating bond should be about more than just heirs.” He smirks then, a wicked glint taking form in his eyes as he glances at Yuji sidelong. “Sex, too.”

Yuji swallows, feeling his heart start to race again. He’s not sure what Gojo’s getting at, but his words refer far too specifically to what awaits them at the end of the night, for his liking. The joining of their bodies and with it, the forging of their bond.

“Have you ever thought about it before?” Gojo asks him.

Yuji stares at him. “Sex?” he asks, puzzled. “Of course,” he blurts out, and then cringes as Gojo’s eyebrows raise. “I mean—I—I’ve never d-done it, but I know what it is. I’ve—” Imagined it plenty of times , he almost says, and then nearly bites his tongue to stop himself from admitting something so revealing. He supposes he shouldn’t be ashamed, as Gojo’s obviously gone far beyond imagining, at this point, but he still falters at such an admission. “I’ve got a pretty good idea of how it works.”

In truth he’d never imagined it particularly vividly before presenting. Had only the vaguest notions of what went where and how to put it there. Knew it felt good, when he touched himself, and thought occasionally of how it might feel to be touched by another, and to touch them in turn.

But things changed after his first heat. Before then he’d never known himself to be capable of such bald, shameless want , but he knows now there is no imagination more vivid, no desire more perverse, no demand more shameful than those of an omega in heat, and he sends silent thanks to the Gods that Gojo won’t be seeing him like that until long after they’ve gotten to know each other.

He isn’t ready for Gojo to know that in truth, there’s a part of his bride who, deep down, would fall to his knees at his alpha’s feet and beg to be defiled.

“I was actually talking about the bond,” Gojo tells him, voice sounding positively delighted. “But thank you—that’s good to know as well.”

Yuji’s mind grinds to a halt. “Right,” he manages to squeak out, furious with himself. “The bond.” 

He thinks for a moment, about Gojo’s question, and then answers. “I’d never thought about it before.” Gojo’s eyes flick over to his, curious. “I guess I always thought I’d be a beta, and beta don’t create bonds like omega and alpha do.”

Gojo hums in agreement. “Nineteen is very old, to be presenting. I would’ve thought you were a beta, too.”

The words are oddly comforting, though Gojo is surely just stating a fact. “How old were you?” Yuji asks him. “When you presented, I mean.”

Gojo’s brows draw together for a moment as he seems to be calculating the math inside his head.

“Eight,” he says finally, and laughs again when Yuji gapes at him, dumbfounded. “What can I say? I guess my body couldn’t wait.”

Yuji’s head is reeling with the image of an eight-year-old Gojo Satoru—so much younger and smaller and more vulnerable than the Gojo that sits beside him now—giving off the kind of alpha pheromones that’d make even a beta like Choso cringe and cower in fear. It’s surreal. It’s terrifying. It’s—

“Cute,” Yuji says quietly, mostly to himself, but of course, his betrothed hears him. 

“Hey,” he says, a warning tone to his voice—belied by the faint traces of a smile across his face that has yet to completely fade. “Have some respect. There was nothing cute about it, all right?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Yuji says quickly, waving his hands in a placating gesture, but Gojo isn’t convinced.

“You don’t sound sorry,” he scolds, reaching over to poke Yuji’s cheek for good measure. “I’ll have you know my eight year old self would have had your eight year old self quaking in his peasant sandals.”

The statement is as absurd as the image it conjures in Yuji’s mind, and he laughs, wiping the phantom impression of Gojo’s finger against his cheek away with the back of his hand. “I highly doubt that, Gojo-sama,” he says. “My eight year old self was pretty fearless.”

This statement seems to pique Gojo’s curiosity, and from there the conversation turns to their childhoods. Yuji, feeling warm and comfortable in Gojo’s presence for the first time all evening, regales his husband with some of his favourite stories from his younger years, and after a time Gojo shares some of his own with Yuji. 

At last, they talk. Properly.

“All right, now you’re just making things up,” Gojo tells Yuji while Yuji's still in the middle of recounting the particularly harrowing time that, at aged nine, he faced off against a she-bear over a fresh basket of fish. 

“I am not!” Yuji cries, outraged. “I swear on my Grandpa’s life. She was huge, and—”

“Yes, and you’re tiny. So I find it hard to believe…”

“I’m not that small…”

“...that you somehow, what? Scared her off? Killed her?” Gojo shakes his head. “Honestly, you had me until that one, Yuji-kun. You’re not one of those compulsive liars by any chance, are you?” The words are spoken in a semi-serious tone, but the look on Gojo’s face is all teasing mirth, so Yuji knows not to take the bait.

He does it anyway.

“That’s rich coming from you, Gojo-sama,” he fires back. “I’m still on the fence about your last story about that foreign emissary. What ‘kingdom’ did you say he was from, again?”

Gojo bristles good-naturedly. “I told you I don’t remember the kingdom, you cheeky brat. I was twelve. And I’m telling you it’s true. One word from me and he was pissing himself, right there in the entrance hall.” He laughs, apparently still fond of the memory. “There were easily as many people there to witness it as there are at our wedding feast, right now. My parents were furious, but it was worth it.”

Yuji knows he should be horrified by the story, and by the pride Gojo takes in it. Knows he would be, if not for the look in Gojo’s eyes, minutes earlier, when he explained to Yuji the reason for his actions. 

“He played the part of the perfect well-bred gentlemen, in front of me and the rest of my clan. But in the night he sought out our servants—sought them out and dishonoured them, then threatened them into silence until he got to my favourite nursemaid, and she told me everything.”

Now, Yuji snorts. “All right, I guess I’ll believe you. But I still can’t believe you don’t know what happened to him after that!”

Gojo shrugs, unconcerned. “Why should I care what happened to him?” He frowns, expression turning pensive. “Hana-san fell pregnant afterwards, and my parents dismissed her. I’ll never forgive him for that, you know. I hope he died in shame.”

Yuji pauses, his amusement fading. “Me, too,” he says fiercely, and means it. Strangely, the story casts his mind back to Zenin Naoya, and he wonders how many lives such an alpha would be capable of ruining so, if given the chance. He wonders how many lives the man has already ruined, and thanks the Gods once more for the card they dealt him.

How strange , he thinks, idly watching his husband as he reaches his hand out, deceptively gentle, and allows a firefly to land on his thumb. I feel as if I am almost…

Glad.

Delicately, Gojo brings his other hand up to cup the firefly within his palms, and Yuji takes a moment or two to enjoy the way the soft golden light casts a warm glow across his features. 

“I didn’t kill the bear,” he says softly, and Gojo blinks, distracted from the firefly, and glances over at him, eyebrows raised.

“Oh?” he asks. “So did she run, then, after all?”

Yuji shakes his head slowly. “No,” he murmurs. “In the end I gave her some of the fish, and she backed down. We shared it, and no one had to go hungry.”

Gojo smiles, and Yuji wonders if it’s just his imagination, the way the light seems to dance in his eyes, for a moment, before he opens his palms and lets the firefly go. 

“I should have known,” he says, and nothing more.

–*--

They talk for a bit more after that, but soon enough the night starts to turn cold in a way that neither of them—not even Gojo, who as an alpha runs hotter than the average person—is capable of ignoring any longer. 

“I suppose they’ll be missing us by now.” He casts his gaze back in the vague direction of the estate, then looks back at Yuji, who is faintly shivering as a cold breeze passes through the field, shaking petals off their stems in its wake. “Shall we head back?”

Yuji hesitates. Uncomfortable though he may be, he finds himself reluctant to leave this place, where he and his husband have formed their own private sanctuary away from the prying eyes and ears of their busybody guests. 

And beyond that, there’s still the matter of…

The consummation. The later the night gets, the less Yuji can avoid thinking of it. And it is getting well and truly late now. He imitates Gojo, gazing off in the direction of the ceremony hall himself, a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

“Yes,” he says quietly, though it must be clear as day in his bearing that he doesn’t mean it, because rather than stand, Gojo only stares at him quizzically in response. 

And then he grins. “Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying my company, Yuji-kun,” he teases, and when Yuji splutters, unable to contradict him fast enough, he goes on. “Oh, and what’s that?” He holds his hand up to his ear, pretending to listen intently. “You don’t want to share me with anyone else? Wow, Yuji, I didn’t take you for the possessive type…”

“I’m not—” Yuji tries, then, “That’s not—I’m just—”

Gojo raises his eyebrows, expression infuriatingly smug. 

And smug he should be, Yuji realises, as his protestations fall away before he can even speak them out loud.

Because Gojo’s right. Yuji isn’t ready to go back yet. Yuji isn’t ready to return to the feast, and to the guests, and to the cold manner in which his husband carries himself in their presence. He’s not ready for the ease of their conversation to end the moment they step foot back in the hall, and for them to inevitably leave each other’s side. He’s not ready for them to be separated for the duration of what remains of the feast, as Gojo will no doubt have one thing or another or another to attend to while Yuji sits stuck at the table, the perfect picture of a proper omega.

And above all, he’s not ready for what comes after. He’s not ready at all.

So, “Maybe just a little bit longer…” he suggests, and Gojo doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he does something far worse.

“You’re worried, aren’t you,” he says, not bothering to phrase it as a question. “About tonight.”

Yuji blanches. “N-no, I—” Under the cool scrutiny of his husband’s gaze, he can’t bring himself to lie. “Yes,” he admits, and averts his eyes, ashamed. “But…”

He pauses for a little while, and Gojo prompts him. “But…?” he asks, tone indiscernible, and Yuji realises there’s a chance he might have offended him.

“But it’s not because of you, Gojo-sama,” he says quickly, and looks up again just in time to see Gojo’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. At this, he clarifies further. “I just.” He sighs, and looks away again. “I…”

“Yes, Yuji-kun?” Despite how frustrating Yuji must be being, right now, there’s no signs of impatience in Gojo’s tone. And in the end, that’s what gives him the courage to barrel forward.

“I guess I’m just afraid,” he admits, shame colouring his cheeks despite his best efforts to stamp it down. “Not—not of the uh, the act itself, although…no.” He shakes his head. “And not you, Gojo-sama.” This is only half true, of course. He’s a little afraid of his husband, but he thinks anyone’d be a fool not to be. In any case, he continues before Gojo gets a chance to detect the dishonesty in his voice.

“I’m afraid of them. Of what they’ll think of me, and say about me. I’m afraid that I’ll be bad at it, and they’ll all watch and—” He pauses, feeling the humiliating sting of tears at the backs of his eyes and willing them away through sheer force of will. “That they’ll laugh at me.” He lets out a long, deep sigh. “I know I shouldn’t care,” he mutters. “I know it shouldn’t matter, but…”

“If anyone laughs at you,” Gojo cuts him off, “I’ll kill them.”

His tone of voice and his face are so completely and utterly stone faced, when he says it, that Yuji can’t help it.

He bursts out laughing. 

“Do you think I’m joking?” his husband asks, expression still serious, and Yuji hastily shakes his head, even as he feels tears forming in his eyes for a completely different reason now.

“No, Gojo-sama,” he says. “I know you mean it, so please don’t.” 

Gojo frowns, looking unreasonably inconvenienced by this request, but he doesn’t argue. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuji says, remembering his train of thought from before Gojo interrupted. Strangely, he feels calmer now despite the killing intent currently emanating from the man he’s to share his bed and body with in a few short hours. “It’s just, I guess I just wanted to tell you, before—before it happens.”

“Tell me what?” Gojo asks him.

Yuji swallows. “Just about, uh. About what you said before, about—about doing it, you know, without all the politics and ceremony. About doing it on your own terms, because you want to. I just w-wanted to say that, if I’d had the choice…”

He chances a glance at Gojo, and sees those eyes, intensely blue and fixed right on him, and it’s almost enough to stop him from saying the words out loud.

Almost.

“I guess what I’m trying to say, is,” he says, “I wish we could’ve done it that way, too.”

Yuji feels the impact of his words ripple through the air between them straight away. Feels it in the painfully long, loaded silence that follows the words, and over the course of it, as Yuji does everything within his power not to look in his husband’s direction, he feels it in the sharp spike in Gojo’s pheromones.

Because the flowers aren’t doing as much to mask Gojo’s scent, anymore. Beneath their perfume Yuji can sense a smooth undercurrent of something hot and thick and heavy, in the air, and he suspects he knows what it is too, as he feels his cheeks heat and his heartbeat quicken treacherously in his chest, in answer. 

It’s at this point that Yuji makes the mistake of glancing over at Gojo, and—

Just when , he thinks, with what he pretends is alarm but what feels far closer to anticipation, did he move in so close?

Gojo watches Yuji through eyes darkened by desire, his pupils dilated to such a point that the blue of his eyes is only a faint, thin ring around the edges.

“So then,” Gojo breathes, his eyes flicking down from Yuji’s eyes to his lips, and then back again. “Why don’t we?”

Yuji gulps, the sound loud in the stillness of the night around them. For fear of what might happen if he dares look away, he holds eye contact with Gojo as he opens his mouth to say, We can’t , but says instead—

“Why don’t we what?” His voice is barely audible over the pounding of his heart, because he’s not asking because he doesn’t know. He’s asking because he wants Gojo to say it. He wants to be absolutely certain, that Gojo is suggesting what Yuji thinks he is.

Evidently, Gojo sees right past Yuji’s artifice to the truth because, as Yuji watches, his mouth turns upward into a smug, knowing smirk.

“Why don’t we do it,” he says, his voice low and deep and steady, “like this?”

And no sooner have the words been spoken, than Gojo Satoru is leaning across the space between them, and pressing his lips to Itadori Yuji’s in a kiss.

It’s Yuji’s first kiss. 

It feels—

Good.

Yuji’s eyelids flutter closed on pure instinct, as he lets the kiss take him. Gojo’s lips are warm and unexpectedly soft. They move against Yuji’s with a confidence honed under a decade’s worth of practise, and Yuji, inexperienced as he is, tries to keep up with Gojo’s technique as best he can. 

He tastes like seasalt, Yuji thinks. But sweet, too.

Gojo’s scent is palpable in the air between them, the pulsing intensity of it setting Yuji’s omega instincts off in rapid fire bursts of fear and want in equal measure. He feels his flesh alight with invisible fire in every place they touch, even through the thick fabric of their kimono. Gojo’s hand on his cheek as Gojo angles him into the kiss, and Gojo’s arm around his waist, holding him close. When he brings his own hands up to grip Gojo’s broad shoulders, he feels the muscles in them flex. Feels the give of his skin beneath the fabric, when he drags his nails across them.

He feels Gojo’s tongue tease along the seam of his lips, and parts them on a sigh.

I knew I shouldn’t have let him sit so close , Yuji thinks, gripping Gojo’s shoulders tighter as his husband licks gently into his mouth.

And then Yuji doesn’t think of anything more for some time.

At least, that’s the plan. Until—

“GOJO-SAMA!”

Yuji nearly jumps out of his skin, breaking off the kiss in a gasp, and it takes him an embarrassing beat too long to realise where the voice came from, let alone who it belongs to. Beside him, Gojo leans backward, slowly, and casts a borderline murderous gaze up at the source of the sound. Yuji turns, following his eyeline, and sees—

Ijichi. Of course. Hovering about a quarter of the way down the hill they descended earlier, an unmistakably anxious expression on his face.

When it becomes apparent Gojo will not be answering Ijichi any time soon, Yuji recovers himself enough to call out to him. 

“Ijichi-san,” he says, and to his credit his voice only shakes a little. “What is it?”

Ijichi seems to hesitate before answering, and Yuji wonders if he can sense the violent energy Gojo is radiating towards him at this moment. Yuji’s tempted to try and dampen it with his own pheromones, but he can’t gather enough feelings of calmness and contentment within himself to override Gojo’s frustration.

In any case, it doesn’t sway Ijichi for long. “Itadori-sama,” he says. “I’ve just come looking for you because, you see, most of the guests have left or are leaving, and…” He pauses as Gojo turns away with an annoyed huff. “And, well, it’s expected that the newly wedded couple assist in the, uh.” He coughs, clearly nervous. “Formal farewells.”

For a tense moment, it seems as if Gojo might argue. Certainly, his scent flickers irritably with the clear desire to do so, but then he glances over at Yuji, and seems to change his mind. His pheromones settle, and Yuji breathes a quiet sigh of relief. 

“Fine,” is all he deigns to say to his vassal. “Go wait back up the hill, then. We’ll be there in a minute.”

Ijichi hesitates, eyes flitting nervously from Gojo to Yuji, and Yuji cringes, remembering what he stumbled upon and realising what he must be imagining might take place after he leaves the two of them alone. 

“I said go, ” Gojo snaps, voice sharp as a thorn, and Ijichi visibly flinches.

“Y-yes, Gojo-sama.” He quickly turns and obeys, scrambling up the hill like he wants nothing more than to put as much distance between himself and his lord as possible without defying the laws of grace and decorum that bind them.

Gojo barely spares a glance to watch him leave, a frown of displeasure etched between his brows as he turns back to Yuji, though it softens when he meets Yuji’s gaze with his own. 

“I just want to assure you,” he says lowly, as though imparting on Yuji a very important secret. “That I have no interest in bidding farewell to any of these so-called honoured guests. I don’t even know who half of them are.”

Yuji chuckles, remembering at the last minute to bring his hand up to cover his mouth as he does so—letting himself ease into the part of the sophisticated well-bred bride, again, after the easy intimacy of only a few moments before.

“I don’t know who any of them are,” Yuji admits, and it’s Gojo’s turn to laugh, this time. Yuji pauses for a second or two, just to enjoy the sound of it, then continues. “But we should do our duty, Gojo-sama. They travelled all this way, after all.”

Gojo rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. “Very well,” he says. “Far be it from me to argue with the fearsome Itadori Yuji. Oh, which reminds me—”

Gojo moves in close to him again, and Yuji feels the hot breath of his words against his ear as he says, “I’d like it if you would call me Satoru from now on.”

Yuji’s face burns with the force of his blush, but when Gojo— Satoru —leans back, seeking an answer in his eyes, he meets his husband’s gaze bravely, and nods.

Satoru smirks, a look flickering in his eyes that lets Yuji know he’s thinking of continuing what they started a few minutes ago, and Yuji decides to quickly put an end to that. He stands, Satoru’s wishes be damned, and takes a couple of pointed steps away until they’re no longer within arm’s reach. Satoru pouts, but doesn’t protest, instead opting to watch quietly as Yuji stretches, arms reaching high above his head as he yawns. It’s a most indelicate thing, actually, his eyes squeezed shut with the force of it and the sound of it loud in the sudden quiet of the night.

When he feels the firm pressure of a hand on his hip he startles so violently it shakes the ground beneath him.

“Whuh—huh!?” he yelps, but his tormentor doesn’t even seem to notice. Instead, Satoru leans over him and stares studiously at where he’s just placed his hand, a curious cast to his face.

“So this is what you’ve been trying to hide all night,” he says conversationally, and Yuji blinks up at him, uncomprehending, until he looks down and remembers—

The wine stain.

“Ah!” he says, and hastily shoves Satoru’s hand away. Satoru steps back, that infernal smirk writ across his face as he watches Yuji scramble in vain to conceal the stain once more. “This—it’s nothing—”

“Uh-huh,” Satoru says, smirk widening into an indulgent grin as, abruptly, the full impact of his words catch up to Yuji. 

“Wait a second,” he says, glaring indignantly up at his husband. “You—you knew I was hiding something all this time!?”

Satoru crosses his arms across his chest and appraises the stain once more, eyebrow raised in mock surprise. “Oh, were you trying to be subtle about it?” he asks, then looks up as Yuji splutters, outraged. “It’s quite a stain. What happened?”

Yuji stiffens, cogs turning inside his mind as he remembers the incident with the servant girl and, most specifically, her pleas that he not divulge her mistake to the lord of the household. 

“I spilled it,” he says simply. “I uh—I spilled it. On myself. Alone.” Internally, he kicks himself. Why would it even matter if you were on your own or not, idiot?

But Satoru just nods, seemingly unconcerned, and then his lips turn up into a sly grin. “It would seem I’ve made quite a clumsy choice of mate, then,” he says, but there’s a fond warmth in the words that overrides any implied insult Yuji might have otherwise read into. 

Yuji huffs a laugh, bashful once more all of a sudden.. “I…I guess so,” he mumbles, and looks down at his feet.

Once more he feels the touch of Gojo Satoru’s forefinger, on his chin, as Satoru tips his face upwards. 

They regard each other a moment in cool, contemplative silence, Satoru’s blue eyes fixed consideringly on Yuji’s gold, and when Satoru speaks again his words are matter-of-fact—free of any of the condescension he might have paid Yuji hours earlier in their acquaintance with each other. 

“Why hide it?” he asks, his voice deep and velvety rich, just like the night sky above them. “Red suits you, you know.”

This time, the heat floods Yuji’s face so profoundly it is as if he’s standing within an inch of a blazing fire. And it embarrasses him, to have it so on display with no means to escape his husband’s scrutiny; his chin still held fast in the gentle grip of Satoru’s finger and thumb. 

“I—” he squeaks, scrambling to think of a lie, and then he realises he doesn’t have to. Or perhaps, he doesn’t want to. He clears his throat and continues, with plain honesty, “I don’t want them to see and think less of me.” He’s sure he doesn’t need to specify whom he means by them. And he doesn’t think to mention, either, that until very recently Satoru himself was included among them. “I don’t want them to think I’m a fool.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, and he lets Yuji go. Though freed now from his spouse’s gaze, Yuji finds himself remarkably less eager to look away. 

“You’re no fool, Yuji,” he says, certain. “And you shouldn’t mind what they think. Especially not now, but—” He adjusts his attention to his own person, for a moment, and Yuji watches as he shrugs, casual as anything, out of the outermost layer of his kimono, and holds the deep red fabric up before them with a critical eye. 

“Here,” he says after a few seconds, apparently satisfied, and before Yuji can blink he’s stepped in close and draped the garment around Yuji, instead. This close to Satoru’s bared neck, Yuji catches it again—his mesmerising alpha scent of sea salt, of burnt sugar and pine. His husband’s touch lingers, fingers brushing against the curve in Yuji’s waist as he ties the obi at Yuji’s back, and Yuji shivers at the sensation. It’s impossible not to be reminded of earlier; the way Satoru’s hands fit so well in that exact same spot, the way it felt to have his scent so overpoweringly strong all around and over him as they kissed and kissed and kissed.

As they might have gone further, too, if only Ijichi hadn’t—

Satoru steps back, a shameless smile etched across his mouth like he knows exactly what he just did. He looks Yuji critically up and down, something he’s done once before, tonight, but there’s a distinctly different air about it this time that flickers a soft spark to life, inside Yuji’s chest.

“See?” he asks, and Yuji looks down at himself—the white of his kimono almost completely concealed now, beneath the red of Satoru’s, from his shoulders to the floor. “Now no one needs to know.” And then a pause, and, “You really do look good in red, Yuji-kun.”

The compliment—spoken plain and free of any inkling of dry humour or mockery—takes Yuji so off guard that he’s rendered speechless, at first, just staring struck dumb at his husband for an embarrassingly long moment before his manners catch up to him.

And then they do catch up to him, and he hastily replies, ducking his head. “Thank you, Satoru-sama.” He wraps the kimono tighter around himself, looking down at the supple, richly textured fabric that must have cost his husband’s family a fortune; donned now by a commoner born in a barn all the way over on the other side of the country.

The thought pleases him; pleases a small, stubborn place inside him that’s managed to hold onto the Itadori family pride. And beyond that, a more primal part of him. The omega part of him, that’s pleased by the idea of wearing an alpha’s—wearing his alpha’s—clothes.

Come, now , Yuji reminds himself. He’s not your alpha yet.

“You can keep it, if you like it that much.” Satoru’s voice breaks into Yuji’s reverie, and he jumps, looking up with his eyes wide in question. 

“Oh—no, I wouldn’t, I mean, it’s not—”

Satoru’s still smiling at him, but that familiar teasing edge to it is back. He holds a hand up, prompting Yuji to stop.  “Please, I insist,” he says. “I’ve plenty more where that one came from, I assure you.” He watches Yuji  a moment longer, seemingly trying to puzzle something out, and then turns and looks over his shoulder. Up at the crest of the hill that Ijichi disappeared over, the same one which they themselves were far delayed in crossing to follow him. Yuji can’t read minds, nor can he even read scents particularly well, but he detects, in the line of Satoru’s jaw outlined under the silver light of the stars, a slight sense of hesitation. 

His heartbeat picks up again at the implications of what that might mean, and before things can escalate further he blurts out, awkward, “We’d better go back.”

Satoru blinks and turns back to him. He shoots Yuji a soft and secret smile, then answers, “Yes, I suppose we’d better. Come on, then.” He gestures up the hill with a flourish. “After you, Yuji- sama .”

Yuji resists the urge to roll his eyes at the honorific, and strides forward—making sure to gather the train of his kimono in hand, as he does so—intent now on getting back to the celebration. His friends are surely worried for him, by now, and he knows the longer they’re thought to be alone together the longer any gossips in the vicinity have to spread their silly little lies about what, exactly, the two of them were doing.

Well, Yuji allows, remembering the hushed, whispered words of promise he shared with his husband before Ijichi interrupted them, I suppose they wouldn’t be total lies. But he doesn’t want to give the gossips any ammunition regardless.

The ascent to the top of the hill is far less disastrous than the descent, and they manage to reach the top in no time without issue until the very end, when Yuji has to clamber unceremoniously over a particularly tall boulder blocking their path. 

Satoru offers a hand to help, a teasing laughter in his eyes, but Yuji waves him away.

“I can do it,” he insists, tugging the bottom of the kimono out from where it’s somehow gotten tangled up in itself somewhere on the way between one side of the rock and the other. 

“I’m sure,” Satoru says, in the patronisingly patient tone of voice one might adopt when speaking to a very stubborn young child. 

Naturally, this only makes Yuji more determined to do it without his help. “It’d be easier if I was wearing hakama,” he says churlishly, and hears Satoru snort, behind him.

“I’m sure,” he repeats, though this time, at least, he sounds considerably more genuine.

Having finally won the fight with his kimono, Yuji climbs down from the rock. He turns before they head off; takes one last look at the flower field from above, and the longing in his eyes must be obvious, because—

“We can come back tomorrow,” Satoru reassures him, and Yuji blinks up at him, surprised. Satoru smiles. “I’ll show you I was telling the truth. It’s much more beautiful in the sunlight.”

The warmth in his voice soothes Yuji, as does the promise of tomorrow. He realises that in all his agony of trying not to think about tonight , he hasn’t even thought about something as simple as tomorrow . The fact that Satoru has is strangely comforting. It means that tonight is something he intends to overcome. That he intends for them both to overcome, together.

“You’re right,” Yuji says softly, and smiles up at Satoru in a way that he hopes conveys the sincerity of the words in his heart. “Let’s come back tomorrow, Satoru-sama.” He laughs weakly. “If you still want me after—well, you know…”

Satoru doesn’t immediately respond, only watches Yuji intently, eyes narrowed, a gentle discontent building in his scent. Yuji shifts uncomfortably, about to break the silence himself when Satoru finally speaks. “You’re not still worried?” he asks, his meaning clear, though of course he adds, “About tonight.”

Yuji glances warily over at Ijichi then directs his gaze to the ground as he answers honestly. “Yes.” Then, “I’m sorry.”

Something shifts in Satoru’s eyes, then, as they gaze down into Yuji’s own, and between them the air seems to almost shimmer with a sudden shared, instinctive surge in their pheromones.

Yuji shivers, reminded of what passed between them at the bottom of the hill. He knows he should avert his eyes, knows that Ijichi is standing only several feet away and knows that they need to get back to the feast. But looking into his husband’s eyes like this, he can’t seem to make himself look away. 

But, “Me, too,” is all Satoru says, the deep timbre of his voice gentle despite the burning ember of his eyes. And then he looks away. 

As they start the long walk back to the ceremony hall, Yuji feels another faint chill blowing in from the north, but the cold doesn’t bother him this time. 

The warmth of his husband’s kimono is more than enough to fend it off. 

Chapter Text

When they arrive back at the hall, it’s to find to Satoru’s unfiltered relief that the majority of guests have departed, leaving only the barest bones of stragglers behind for him and Yuji to deal with. 

“Um, Gojo-sama,” Ijichi stammers when they reach the front entrance to find it mostly deserted with just the faintest din of chatter emanating from behind the doors. “I think—I mean, that is—”

“Speak plainly,” Satoru grumbles, already tired at the thought of socialising though he’s barely spoken to any of his guests all night. 

“Ah, sorry. It’s just that I think it would be better if you and Itadori-sama entered separately. Just—” He adds hastily, as Satoru raises a single unimpressed brow, “Just so it’s not so obvious you were gone so long… together .” 

Satoru rolls his eyes, about to voice just how little he cares what’s obvious or not, but then he senses, in Yuji’s pheromones, the slightest hint of heightened nerves.

“All right,” he agrees, then smirks. “But we’re bound to raise some eyebrows regardless, now that Yuji-kun’s wearing my kimono.”

Yuji blushes, then looks troubled. “Maybe I should give it back…?” he asks, but Satoru is already shaking his head No before he finishes the thought.

“No way,” he says smugly. “And besides, it’s better if they see you wearing my clothes. Makes it more clear you’re under my protection.”

“Ohhh,” Yuji says, and nods in understanding. “Sending a message to the other clans is important,” he recites knowledgeably, as if repeating some lesson he’s already been taught, and Satoru fights back an endeared laugh.

“All right. I’m gonna go around the side entrance now, then.” He jerks a thumb in that general direction, then addresses Yuji. “You wait out here for about five minutes, then come in.”

Yuji nods, a wistful look taking shape on his face as he looks in the direction of the side entrance Satoru plans on taking. “It feels like waking up from a dream,” he says softly, then meets Satoru’s eyes again. “Coming back here after…” He laughs awkwardly. “Well, after.”

Satoru smiles at him, impossibly fond of his sweet little bride. “The dream doesn’t have to end, Yuji-kun,” he reassures. “It’s just been put on hold for a little while.”

Before Yuji can answer, he reaches out and takes his hand. Brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to it. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, and delights in the way Yuji’s pheromones near sing with anticipation as he holds his bride’s gaze meaningfully, and then turns away.

He rounds the corner and slips in through the eastern wing to find the hall mostly empty, as expected. A quick look around finds the Kamo and Zenin delegations still lingering at their assigned seating—unsurprising, given that their clan heads will be staying back late. Speaking of, Satoru’s mood sours when he catches the sight of Naoya, at the head of his table, and Naoya shoots him a slimy smirk.

Other than the two other main clans there are some minor members of his own clan, a handful of council members, a few of his vassal clans as well as some people from his own circle and of course, Yuji’s friends. 

He spots Nanami from across the hall right as Nanami spots him, and his old friend soon makes his way to Satoru’s side. Though, he doesn’t look particularly thrilled to see him. 

“What did you do with Itadori-kun?” he asks apropos of nothing, and Satoru laughs. 

“Do you have so little faith in me, Nanami? I didn’t do anything. You’ll find him soon enough completely in one piece, just as he was when you saw him last.”

Nanami’s eyes narrow. He’s never been fooled by Satoru’s false charm—something Satoru’s always respected about him. “You should be more considerate of his reputation, dragging him off like that without supervision.”

“We’re already married ,” Satoru huffs. “And nothing happened, anyway.” A blatant lie, but not even the most astute alpha would be able to detect it in his voice. “What do you take me for?”

Without missing a beat: “Someone with no respect for proprietary.”

Satoru grins. “Well. You’ve got me there.”

He’s saved having to hear his friend’s retort by a brief titter from the other end of the room, and he glances over to see Yuji entering, right on cue as instructed. 

He really does look so good in red, he thinks, though he wonders if the heady sense of desire he feels seeing him in this particular shade is due to the colour or more due to the fact that the garment in question is awash with Satoru’s own scent, marking Yuji as his accordingly. 

In any case, the sight excites him enough to momentarily distract him completely from the conversation with Nanami. And evidently it’s distracting everyone else in the room too, he thinks irritably, watching the way the other feast-goers can’t seem to keep their ugly eyes off of his bride. He’s of half a mind to stride over and stand in front of Yuji himself to block him from their sights when Nanami speaks again.

“Nothing happened, huh?” he asks dryly, but doesn’t push the issue further. Which is lucky, Satoru thinks, because it’s none of his business anyway.

He catches a familiar scent at his back, and feels a sharp poke in his ribs. “ There you are,” Suguru says, voice reproachful. Satoru turns, grinning indulgently at the pout on his best friend’s face. “Itadori-kun’s friends seemed about to send out a search party.” He nods over at the friends in question—the Kamo beta, the no-name omega and, unexpectedly, Kugisaki Nobara too—who have found Yuji and flocked to his side.

Suguru seems to notice, then, the addition to Yuji’s attire, and his eyebrows raise. “And just what did you two get up to out there, hm?” he asks slyly, shooting Satoru a smug, knowing smirk, but Satoru waves him off.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Suguru. I gave it to him because—” A pause, as he remembers Yuji’s words from earlier. I don’t want them to think less of me. “Because he was cold,” he finishes, and if Suguru’s curious about the pause, he doesn’t say anything. 

“I see,” Suguru says after a pause of his own, then pulls out his fan. Fans his face lazily a few times, eyes slightly narrowed as they remain on Yuji. “You do smell like omega , though,” he tells Satoru, shrewd gaze sliding over. “Quite a bit more than you did before.”

Nanami overhears, the bastard, and even his muted beta scent flickers with evident irritation. “Are you really that shameless?” he demands, and Satoru bristles.

“Do you both have so little faith in me?” he snaps, turning between one and the other. “Listen, his virtue is secure, all right? All we did was—”

“Gojo-san.” They all turn, and there stands Lady Kugisaki, looking as severe and stern as always. Her eyes flick over Suguru disapprovingly—three guesses as to why—and he blows her an irreverent kiss. At Satoru’s other side, Nanami offers her a far more appropriate, but still pointedly curt, bow. 

The old hag only narrows her eyes, in answer, and fixes her steely gaze on Satoru. “We must begin the preparations for the consummation ceremony.” She nods at Yuji, who’s been joined now by Yuta who, to Satoru’s surprise, seems to be in the process of introducing him to Todo Aoi. His eyes linger on the brawny young alpha, closer to Yuji in age than himself, and he frowns at their proximity.

Watch yourself, Aoi-kun, he thinks darkly. And mind you don’t get so familiar with an omega that doesn’t belong to you. At least Yuji, he’s pleased to see, doesn’t seem quite so taken with Aoi as Aoi is with Yuji. As Satoru watches them, Yuji glances nervously over in Satoru’s direction, and their eyes meet.

They hold each other’s gaze as Satoru’s lips turn gently upwards into a smile. Yuji shoots him a warm and secret smile of his own, in response, and then quickly looks away, cheeks pink.

“...so if you could please commence the farewells at once, this would be much appreciated.” Satoru tunes back into the conversation, expression and mood frosting over as he turns back to regard Kugisaki.

“Are farewells really necessary?” he asks, annoyed. “I’m sure they can all find their way out of the hall without my help.”

Kugisaki’s expression turns to flint. “The farewells are indeed a formality,” she says stiffly. “And a most expected one, at any wedding of high esteem.” She goes on, her tone severe. “Your ignorance on this matter can be forgiven, but Itadori Yuji’s cannot.” Seeing Satoru’s expression, and knowing she’s hit her mark, she finishes, “Or would you see him embarrassed further, for failing to follow due protocol?”

Satoru turns from her without a word, and makes his way to Yuji’s side. He feels Suguru following him and thinks nothing of it until he’s halfway across the room and remembers a certain conversation he had with Yuji, in the gardens.

He stops suddenly, and feels a thunk as Suguru’s face collides with the back of his head.

“Sato ru ,” he complains, rubbing a hand across his forehead as Satoru turns to face him. His expression changes as he notices the look in Satoru’s eyes. “What is it…?” he asks, tone mildly concerned. 

“I’ve just realised something,” Satoru says after a moment of eyeing Suguru up intently. “You haven’t met Yuji yet.”

–*--

Yuji’s relieved to see the wedding hall well on its way to being emptied by the time he steps inside, five minutes after his husband as ordered. The majority of the large tables that were filled to breaking point when he first entered hours ago stand emptied or half-emptied now, their occupants milling around, meandering towards the southern and eastern exits or gone altogether. 

Unfortunately, there being less people in the room makes it harder for him to camouflage his return, and so it’s barely seconds after he’s stepped inside that he feels dozens of pairs of eyes landing on him, senses several unfamiliar pheromones spiking in interest at, presumably, the fact that he’s returned in an updated state of dress. He pretends as best he can not to notice, the way they’ve all no doubt figured out just whom his new kimono belongs to, and tugs it tighter around himself. 

A quick glance across the room soon finds the garment’s original owner, and Yuji’s pleasantly surprised to see Satoru conversing with Nanamin, of all people, but quickly looks away when he sees Geto Suguru appear at his side. He pauses, unsure of whether he should draw their attention or not. Satoru told him Geto was no threat, and Yuji believes him. But there’s still something discomfiting about knowing he might have been, once, and perhaps as far as Geto is concerned, Yuji is the interloper and he the rightful mate. 

He breathes in softly to calm his racing thoughts, eyes closed to help him focus on the way Satoru’s scent lingers in the lining of the fabric. Yuji wonders how it’s possible to miss someone when you last saw them only five minutes ago. He wonders how it’s possible to miss someone when they’re standing in the same room as you, only a handful of yards away. 

“Yuji!”

Yuji’s eyes fly open, following the sound of the familiar voice to see—

“Choso!” he calls, heart flooding with comfort at the sight of his friends walking over. Choso, Junpei and Kugisaki too. His face falls somewhat when he notices the stormy look in their eyes, however, and he winces in anticipation.

“Where the Hell ,” Kugisaki snaps, “have you been?”

“Um—” Yuji starts.

“Itadori-san! Thank the Gods! I couldn't smell you anymore, I thought you might be dead!”

“Uh…” Yuji continues, unable to think of a suitable response to this declaration but wanting to reassure Junpei all the same.

“What are you wearing?” Choso cuts in before he can try, and reaches out to tug at the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers.

“Oh,” Yuji murmurs unhelpfully, and gestures vaguely down at himself. “This is just…”

He’s saved the discomfort of having to explain why he’s wearing Satoru’s kimono by the approach of two others, one familiar to Yuji and one not. 

“Okkotsu-sama,” he calls in greeting, smiling with secret relief at the sight of Satoru’s cousin. 

Okkotsu sends him an answering gentle smile in response, followed by a quick once-over and a minute raise of the eyebrows that confirms to Yuji two things: one, he knows exactly whose kimono it is and two, he’s far too polite to comment on it. 

“Itadori-san,” he says, voice warm. “Welcome back.” He gestures at the alpha beside him; a large, burly man Yuji’s seen once or twice around the room, since the start of the feast, but whom he hasn’t yet been introduced to. “This is Todo Aoi-san. He—”

“Itadori!” Todo declares, lunging forward before Okkotsu can finish speaking. Yuji braces himself and beside him, feels Choso doing the same, anticipating an attack at the potent surge in the alpha’s pheromones, but Todo only grasps his hand and squeezes it, looking intently down into Yuji’s eyes like they’ve known each other for years. 

“I’ve been looking forward to finally meeting you,” Todo rumbles. “The famed hero of the Battle for Yodo River!”

Yuji gapes at him, stunned. “H-hero?” he asks, remembering the decisive battle to which Todo is referring, fought along the banks of a River that the clans of the East and West had been bickering over for centuries and feeling fairly certain he killed more than a few Gojo family allies in the skirmish, in order to secure his brother’s victory. He’d hardly go so far as to call himself a hero , at least not on this side of the River. Is hoping, in fact, that there aren’t any friends or relatives of the men he killed in the room with them right now, lest vengeance be sought upon him.

His eyes dart around nervously, hoping no one’s overheard Todo. He’d really rather not have to get into any more fights, tonight. 

But Todo seems unbothered. “I only managed to catch a glimpse of you, back then,” he says, eyes positively glowing with the intensity of his memory. “But it was enough; even then, on opposite sides, I knew we were meant to be.”

“Oh,” Yuji says numbly. “Is that so?” He casts a quick look to the side and freezes, heart speeding up when he sees that Satoru is watching them from across the room. He’s concerned for a moment that Satoru might be angry, but after a moment of shared eye contact, his husband only smiles, seemingly unconcerned. Thank goodness . Feeling his cheeks heat, Yuji smiles back, and then returns his attention to Todo, who’s evidently still been talking the whole time.

“...knew even then, that we were born to fight beside each other. Your form, your technique. The shape of your body. The look in your eyes as you—”

He’s interrupted by a sharp elbow to the side, from Okkotsu, and Yuji breathes a sigh of relief as the sheer force of Okkotsu’s shove frees his hands from Todo’s grasp. “All right, that’s enough,” Okkotsu says, tone pleasant enough though his pheromones shudder forebodingly. “Please try to remember whose omega you’re talking to, Todo-san.”

Far from being angered by the blatant attack on his person, Todo only lets out a booming, good-natured laugh. “All right, Yuta-kun, no need to worry.” He turns back to Yuji. “I meant no offence, Itadori.” He shrugs. “I only mean to recognise true strength when I see it.” 

“How gracious of you, Aoi-kun,” chimes a new voice. “I admire your dedication.” Yuji feels a smile form at his lips as he turns to the source of this voice. As he breathes in and inhales the comforting scent of his husband’s pheromones, in the flesh now only a few feet away, instead of just remnants woven into the fabric of his kimono. 

“Yuji,” Satoru says. “And…company,” he hastily adds, addressing Yuji’s friends as an afterthought when he notices the expressions on their faces, ranging from wary—Junpei—to defensive—Choso—and on to vaguely disgusted—Kugisaki. He clears his throat. 

“I’m afraid the feast is over, and Yuji and I’ll need to be sending everyone off now.”

Yuji feels his mood fall. Already? he thinks, crestfallen. He’s barely gotten a minute to speak with his friends.

Satoru watches him a moment, and then says, in a gentle undertone, “I’m sure you can save the farewells for your friends for last.”

Yuji’s heart warms a little at this, and he nods. “Yes, of course,” he says, feeling a little childish for having been so disheartened. “I suppose we should go, then.”

With a quick goodbye to his friends and a reassurance that he’ll be back once the formalities are over, he follows obediently after his husband.  

–*--

Yuji’s expecting farewells to take place at the main entrance, so he’s surprised when Satoru veers left, on their way over, and detours them both towards a small hallway in the eastern wing.

He’s even more surprised when they round a corner into the hallway to see none other than Geto Suguru, standing calmly with his arms folded in front of him, tucked into the sleeves of his kimono.

Yuji’s eyes widen at the sight of him, confused, and he falters in his steps. Satoru notices and stops too, then looks between them for a moment, frowning slightly as he must recognise Yuji’s discomfort in his scent.

“It’s all right,” he soothes. “I just figured I should introduce you two, is all.” He turns to Geto. “Suguru,” he says, voice strangely formal even as he’s addressing his own friend. “This is my bride. Itadori Yuji.”

Geto, who’s been watching on in a mild mix of puzzlement and amusement since Satoru and Yuji arrived, passes a look between the two of them, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, Satoru,” he drawls. “I’m aware.” His voice is low and smooth as polished teak, and his dark eyes glimmer with a subtle, sparkling mirth that, Yuji finds when they drift naturally over to meet his, seem to invite him in to share in an indulgent, private joke between just the two of them. 

Which, Yuji supposes, perhaps they are. 

Satoru continues as though he hasn’t spoken, addressing Yuji now instead. “Yuji-kun. This is Geto Suguru. He manages my territories in the North—”

“They’re actually my territories,” Geto cuts in dryly. 

“He manages his territories that were very kindly and generously gifted to him by me , in the North,” Satoru corrects. “And he’s also—” Here Satoru pauses, and meets Yuji’s eyes meaningfully. “My best friend.”

Yuji watches as Geto blinks at Satoru in apparent bemusement, at this announcement, but then recovers quickly. He turns back to Yuji and bows politely. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

A brief pause, and then Yuji bows deeply himself, and responds. “Nice to meet you,” he echoes, then, “Thank you for taking care of Satoru-sama all this time.” He rises from his bow to see Geto’s eyes widening in surprise at such a sincere show of deference. 

The surprise passes quickly, however, to be replaced by a soft and knowing smile. “No thanks are necessary, Itadori-kun. I’ve done what I can.” He adds, with a sly glance in Satoru’s direction, “And I apologise for this one’s conduct at the wedding.”

“Oi,” Satoru growls.

Geto continues as if he hasn’t spoken, shrugging nonchalantly. “He’s been terribly spoiled, you see, and he’s still learning how not to behave like a complete—”

“I take it back,” Satoru snaps, and jerks a thumb in Geto’s direction. “He’s not my friend at all. Actually, I hate his guts.”

Yuji can’t help it. He laughs. Strangely, the sight of them together like this…

I feel at ease, all of a sudden, he realises. Like Satoru-sama is showing me a piece of himself, because he wants to share it with me.

“Well, it’s an honour to meet you anyway, Geto-san,” Yuji says. “And there’s no need to worry about the wedding.” He smiles, shy, though he still feels compelled to defend his husband. “I know Satoru-sama didn’t mean what he said.”

Silence descends between the three of them, at this statement, and Yuji tenses, wondering if he’s said something wrong as they both stare at him.

And then Geto smirks. “Oh, I see,” he says, voice impossibly knowing as he directs his gaze sideways at Satoru. “And how did he explain that, I wonder?”

“Well anyway, this was lovely,” Satoru says, and Yuji can’t quite be sure he isn’t imagining it but it really does look like his husband might be blushing? “But Yuji and I have very important farewells to attend to now, so this is goodbye.”

Geto chuckles. “All right,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” He bows to Yuji once more. “I’ll leave him in your care, Itadori-kun.” 

Yuji bows in return, grinning playfully. “Leave it to me, Geto-san.” When he raises his gaze again, he meets Satoru’s own, and relishes the amused glint in his husband’s eyes. 

After Geto’s departed, sending a cheery wave and an, “I’m going to go see what Shoko’s up to,” back at them as he goes, Satoru lets out a long sigh and then places his hands on his hips as if bracing himself. 

“I suppose we’d better get on with it, then,” he says. “Before the guests get lonely, or something.”

–*--

The farewells are as tedious as Satoru expected, but he enjoys having Yuji beside him.

How strange it is that only hours ago they stood together like this before a profession of guests in the midst of a much less comfortable atmosphere. Satoru’s own fault and Satoru’s sincerest regret, tonight, but he’s relieved that at least he and Yuji are on the same side now.

Most of the farewells pass without issue, though of course when Aoi passes them by he makes a grand show of inviting them both to stay in his estate in Kyoto next time they travel west.

“Uhhh,” Yuji says, clearly struggling with the logistics on how he should politely decline, and Satoru hides a laugh behind his hand.  Grips Yuji’s shoulder gently and subtly pulls him back a little, so Yuji’s a little closer to him and a little less close to Aoi. 

“Thank you for your hospitality as always, Aoi-kun,” he says graciously. “We’ll certainly consider it next time we’re in the area.”

After Aoi’s been and gone and the next group’s moved up to see them, Yuji leans in and says in an undertone, “You’re much better at that than I thought, Gojo-sama.”

Satoru quirks an eyebrow, glancing down at him curiously, polite smile fixed on his face as he greets a guest whose name he can’t remember and thanks them for coming. “Oh? Much better at what?”

Yuji smirks up at him. “Being polite,” he says, and nimbly dodges out of Satoru’s grasp when Satoru tries to inconspicuously jab him in the side in punishment for the cheek.

Shoko and Utahime are among the last to leave, and when Satoru asks Shoko about Suguru she only shrugs. Which is pretty standard practise, where Suguru and Shoko are concerned, so Satoru doesn’t think much of it. He’s sure his friend will come and find him eventually. 

In the end the only guests remaining are Yuji’s personal entourage, some of Satoru’s family attendants and, Satoru notes with distaste, those nominated as witnesses for the consummation.

He watches Yuji’s gaze track over the remaining people in the room as he must be realising, too, who the witnesses are to be, and sees him pale when he notices Yuta among them. “Oh,” he says, and turns away. He doesn't ask Satoru to confirm his suspicions, and so Satoru doesn’t. It will only make things more uncomfortable for them all.

“Excuse me, Gojo-sama,” comes a soft voice from behind, and Satoru turns. 

Ah , he thinks. I suppose it was only a matter of time before they arrived.

Four female attendants stand before them, their kimono in matching patterns of interwoven blue and scarlet threaded with silver. In line with Gojo clan tradition, their eyes are concealed beneath layers of ceremonial bandages—in homage to the first Gojo clan head, whose eyes are said to have held a magical, God-like power in their depths, and who kept them so covered at all times lest he descend into madness from their capabilities. 

Of course, unlike Satoru’s ancestor, these bandages are mostly for show; while yes, they do conceal the women’s features from the outside, the fabric is thin enough that it doesn’t interfere with their vision in the same way the first clan head’s were explicitly designed to do. 

In any case, Satoru knows why they’re here. Two for him, and two for Yuji. These women have been granted the wondrous honour of attending to the current Gojo clan head and his bride in preparation for their bedding. 

They keep their heads down in deference—outside of this responsibility they are just Satoru’s regular servants, after all—but recognise Satoru’s expectant silence for what it is. The woman who first spoke pipes up again. “We apologise for the interruption, my lord. But the bedding chamber is almost ready, and we believe it’s best that preparations begin now.”

Yuji gulps audibly, at this news, and Satoru feels the nervous spike in his scent as though it’s a rusty nail against his own flesh. 

“Understood,” Satoru tells them. “I’ll come now, but…” He nods down at Yuji. “Give Itadori Yuji-kun a few minutes more, all right?” 

Yuji looks up at him in surprise, and Satoru smiles. Hesitates for just a moment, and then reaches down and places his palm gently on Yuji’s head. Yuji’s scent simmers with painfully unmasked pleasure, in response, his pheromones calming. 

“You wanted more time to catch up with your friends, didn’t you?” Satoru murmurs. “Go, then. And mind you tell them I made no untoward attempts on your person in the gardens, while you’re at it.”

Yuji snickers. “Are you asking me to lie then, my lord?”

Satoru shoves his head playfully. “Hey now. That wasn’t untoward and you know it.”

Yuji laughs more openly, smile bright, and dances out of Satoru’s reach once again. “Don’t worry, Satoru-sama. I won’t say a word.” He brings a finger up to his lips in an exaggerated show of secrecy, and Satoru snorts, shaking his head as his bride turns and makes his way over to his friends. 

He watches him walk away, noticing how hard it is to detect the shape of his body movements beneath the thick fabric of his kimono. The next time I see you, there’ll not be so many layers between us.

The thought triggers something primal and dark, deep within him, and he quickly turns, shoving past the attendants and headed for the antechamber beyond the hall.

It’s time for the preparations to begin.

–*--

“I’m coming with you. No question.”

Choso stands before him with authority, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

Yuji sighs. “Choso,” he says for the third time in as many minutes. “I’m sorry but…I really don’t think—”

“You can’t, dumbass,” Kugisaki cuts in, evidently fed up with the argument. When Choso rounds on her, she scowls, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. “Don’t you look at me like that. It’s like Itadori and Yoshino already said. The bedding preparations are meant to be private. Gojo isn’t even allowed to be there.”

At the mention of his husband, Yuji coughs uncomfortably, but no one seems to notice.

Choso frowns. “But I’m—” Family , he seems just on the verge of saying, but says instead, after a slight hesitation, “Yuji’s personal guard. Surely—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kugisaki says, shaking her head dismissively. “The only people who can accompany him are over there.” She nods in the direction of the two remaining female attendants, their expressions inscrutable beneath the bandages adorning their faces as they hang slightly back and politely pretend not to overhear the conversation. “They’re more than just servants, you know. They’ve been blessed by the Gods and specially selected just for this purpose.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Choso huffs. “If this is their special purpose, then what are they supposed to do after the ceremony’s over?”

“Well,” Junpei chimes in, wincing under Choso’s stern look before continuing, “technically it’s not their only purpose. After the ceremony is completed, they’ll be seen to have fulfilled their duty, and they’ll be free to return to their previous role.”

Choso breathes out heavily through his nose and rubs a tired thumb across his forehead, clearly displeased with having to have this argument on three fronts. “I don’t like this,” he says finally, and looks to Yuji again. “Yuji. I know you said everything was fine out there, but…”

Yuji grimaces, and looks away. He’s already given the three of them a brief overview of what happened between him and Satoru in the flower fields—minus absolutely everything involving a certain kiss , of course—but he should have known they wouldn’t be as quick to trust or forgive Satoru when they weren’t there with him themselves, like Yuji was. 

“...I don’t like the idea of you having to go through all this alone,” Choso continues. “And,” he adds, “I don’t see what they could possibly have to do that can’t be done in front of me. I’ve known you since you were a child. I’m practically your brother.”

Kugisaki sneers. “That makes it worse,” she says. “Will you insist on being there for the actual consummation, too?”

“Of course not!” Yuji cries, outraged, at the same time as Choso answers, “If Yuji wants me to,” without missing a beat.

“I don’t want you to,” Yuji says, making his thoughts on the matter explicitly clear. He can hardly imagine something more humiliating than the experience is already set to be. “And I don’t need you there for the preparations, either.” He catches the hurt in Choso’s gaze, at this, and his tone turns apologetic. “Maybe…” he starts, hesitant. “Maybe you could just wait outside?”

In the end, this is their compromise: Choso accompanies him to the preparation room—an antechamber adjacent to the room that’s been set aside for the bedding itself—and consents to wait outside, back turned, while the rituals take place.  In return, Yuji promises to send out a signal if anything unexpected, dangerous or suspicious happens. 

Which is what finds him standing in the dark, deeply perfumed room before a large wooden tub filled to the brim with hot water, steam rising tantalisingly off of the surface as, to his either side, the attendants step forward. 

He’s disrobed in record time, each layer of his complicated attire removed curtly and efficiently by the two women, as though they had rehearsed for this moment as long as he had been rehearsing for the wedding itself. He watches them gently and carefully drape each garment to one side, feeling no small sense of loss as Satoru’s red outer kimono is the first to go. He’s soon distracted, however, as when he’s left standing in nothing but his juban, the women step forward as one before he can say a word and expertly shed the garment from his body.

Yuji shivers, now completely naked before them and unable to help a sudden self-conscious burst of embarrassment. He’s never been this undressed in front of a girl before. But the women pay him no notice. Their faces bandaged as they are, he still can’t perceive their expressions, but their heads have been pointed down for the duration of the process and now is no different. They each retreat, moving to stand at either side of the tub, and fold their hands in front of themselves as if awaiting further instruction. 

Yuji’s fairly certain he knows what’s meant to happen next. He steps forward, and then again, and then when no objections are made, carefully climbs into the tub.

He can’t resist a sigh of pleasure, sinking into the hot, soapy water—recently boiled, by the feel of it, and enough to immerse his entire body if he so wills it. 

One of the women steps forward holding a piece of cloth, as if to help him bathe, and Yuji recoils. “I can bathe myself,” he says quickly, then, “If you please,” aiming for polite. 

The woman frowns slightly, seeming uncomfortable with this, but stiffly backs off after exchanging a look with her companion over Yuji’s shoulder.  

Feeling a little less relaxed now, Yuji goes through the familiar notions of washing himself and waits for his nerves to calm. It feels good to wash some of the grit off of his skin, and he enjoys the mostly neutral scent of the soap. Hopes that it dulls his own scent a bit, though he can imagine Satoru would prefer that it didn’t. 

When he’s done he awkwardly indicates to the women that he’s ready to climb out, trying in vain to conceal the fine details of anatomy behind the soap suds in the water. They bring towels forward and, despite his weak protests, coax him to stand up so they can dry him off. 

Oh well, he thinks. I guess they’ve already seen it by now, anyway.

Of course, it’s at this point that the true preparations begin.

Yuji remains standing as they anoint him with a soft, scented oil dabbed across various parts of his body: his forehead and down along the bridge of nose; the line of his back from his nape to his tailbone; his chest, both sides; the backs of his knees; in thin circles around his wrists and his ankles. 

Yuji can’t quite place the source of the scent. It’s something floral and vaguely familiar, and he wonders if it might derive from one of the wildflowers on the side of the hill Satoru showed him earlier. In any case, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it. Though his enjoyment is hardly the point, is it? He wonders if Satoru will like it. If nothing else, Yuji thinks, his husband will at least be able to tell him where it comes from.

He’s jarred rather violently from his thoughts when he feels one of the women’s fingers slide down past his lower back to apply a generous helping of oil between his legs. 

“Ah!” he cries, near jumping out of his skin and sidling quickly away.

“Itadori-sama…?” When the attendant starts to follow, her hand still outstretched, Yuji maintains his distance. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he says, arms placed protectively in front of himself. Only one person will be touching me there tonight, he thinks stubbornly. And, I should hope, for every night to follow.

His scent must signify his discomfort quite strongly, even over the perfumed aroma of the room, as the women drop the issue. 

One of them—the more senior, Yuji thinks, though he can't be certain of ages—moves to a large wooden chest at the other end of the room, and opens it to reveal several piles of artfully tailored silk fabric. 

“It is customary,” she explains, “for the bride and groom to wear certain ceremonial garments, for the purposes of the bedding.” She holds up one such garment of thin, near translucent silk, its colour a pale cream to match Yuji’s wedding kimono. “This juban has been selected for you by our clan elders.”

Yuji stares at it for a moment, biting his lip. What business is it of the clan elders, he silently protests, what I wear to my own bedding?

Out of the corner of his eye, he can still see the vibrant red of Satoru’s kimono—the kimono Satoru gave him—folded neatly upon a stone shelf in the corner. 

“Red really does suit you, Yuji-kun.”

Decision made, he figures there’s nothing else for it but to try.

“What if,” he asks, “I’ve got something else in mind?”

–*--

Itadori Yuji kneels alone on a thin straw mattress in the centre of the bedding chamber. The room is dim, lit only by a handful of wax candles placed in batches at the two corners of the wall to his left, the air cloudy with the gentle smoke of their burning. To Yuji’s right stands a thin shoji partition, concealing the entirety of that wall from his view and casting that side of the room—and its occupants—into darkness. The partition has been placed, and the candles lit, to ensure two things:

One, anything that happens in front of the partition can be clearly seen from behind it, and—

Two, anything that happens behind the partition cannot be seen by anyone unlucky enough to be in front of it. 

Yuji inhales deeply through his nose. He knows his place, and on what side of the partition he sits. But even if he can’t see the people sitting behind it, he can still smell them.

The three alphas, at least, he can identify by smell, though he counts five other scents unfamiliar to him, likely beta, and then a more familiar scent he’s certain must be Uraume, here on Sukuna’s behalf.

He frowns unhappily. Among the alphas there’s Zenin Naoya, of course. And a member of the Kamo family Yuji can only assume is the clan head, Kamo Noritoshi. Then Okkotsu Yuta, clearly chosen as the representative of the Gojo clan, and here Yuji finds his feelings mixed on the matter. Better at least one friendly face amongst the cold committee of their audience, he supposes, and he’s sure Satoru wouldn’t have allowed Yuta to represent the Gojo clan if he didn’t trust him completely to do it respectfully. 

Still, it feels a little awkward. Yuji hopes Yuta doesn’t watch too closely.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the doors sliding open before him as Gojo Satoru enters the room at last.

Yuji blushes immediately at the sight of him. His husband wears a long flowing silk kimono of deep, rich violet, a perfect complement to his fair skin, and to the midnight black silk obi tied at his waist. 

Satoru’s scowling when he opens the doors, his pheromones bleak like a dark cloud over his head, and Yuji laments the good cheer of their goodbye. He wonders what could have happened during his preparations that’s put him in such a mood, but then Satoru catches sight of him and the scowl falls from his face.

Yuji looks down at his hands, clasping them nervously on his knees as he feels his husband’s eyes rake over the sight of him.

He kneels before his husband dressed in nothing but the red kimono Satoru gave him. A bold gesture, and he doesn’t know, yet, whether it will be an appreciated one. 

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. The change in Satoru’s pheromones is instantaneous; the scent of his piqued interest cutting through the room within seconds, and Yuji lifts his head slightly to watch his husband’s feet as they move forward, step by painstaking step, to stand above Yuji in a distant mimic of the first time they spoke to each other, hours and hours ago. 

“Yuji,” Satoru says, his voice rough. “Look at me.”

Yuji raises his face, hesitant, and meets his husband’s eyes. Finds them darkened with desire, pupils dilated just as they were in the gardens, and an unmistakable hunger burning within. 

“Satoru-sama,” Yuji says, the start of a sentence he hasn’t even planned the ending of, so he settles with, “I’ve been waiting.”

Satoru blinks, the spell momentarily broken as his face relaxes into a smile. In a smooth, graceful motion, he lowers himself to his knees in front of Yuji so they’re facing each other properly. Eye-to-eye, with only two feet or so between them.

“Sorry I kept you,” he murmurs, and glances to his left, at the partition, his expression souring. “And sorry, about… them. I tried to get us out of it, but the elders aren’t budging.” He glares down at the floor, jaw clenched.

Yuji huffs a soft laugh, heart swelling as he realises just why his husband was late. To think even now, he was still trying to…

“Thank you, Satoru-sama,” Yuji says, and means it with his whole heart. And then he swallows, becoming uncomfortably aware once more of their purpose here, and of their audience. 

But there’s nothing for it. It needs to be done. So—

“I suppose we should start, then,” he says, and Satoru’s head rises up, his eyes meeting Yuji’s with renewed meaning. 

Slowly, he nods. “I suppose we should.”

–*--

Haltingly, Yuji starts to remove the robe. He starts with the obi, hands shaking as he reaches behind himself. Leans forward to unfasten the tie, the movement granting Satoru an unimpeded view down the front of the garment; of his bare, bronzed chest and with it, the faintest glimpse of a dusky pink nipple.

Satoru licks his lips.

Yuji leans back again, obi loosened enough now that there’s not much left to keep the kimono on, if someone were to simply reach over and tug it aside. Satoru can hear his bride’s heartrate increase, the beat of it rabbit fast as surely he must realise this. Must feel the way the silk slips against his skin as, in a moment of obvious self-consciousness, he holds it against himself rather than let it fall.

The moment passes, however. Satoru breathes in hard through his nose, fists clenching at his knees as he watches Yuji’s hand come up to slip the silk of the robe off of his shoulder, exposing the smooth plane of sunkissed skin beneath. 

At the other end of the room, he overhears a soft intake of breath, and the faintest flicker of interest from among the witnesses. It’s so faint he can’t identify whose it is through the scent of Yuji’s own pheromones, right in front of him, but he detects enough.

Satoru makes a split decision.

“Wait,” he breathes, and reaches across the gap between them. Closes his fingers gently around Yuji’s wrist, and Yuji startles. Looks up at him, expression almost painfully open, raw and honest.

“Satoru-sama…?” he asks, voice unbearably shy as his pheromones simmer with nerves.

Satoru’s hand tightens at his wrist, ever so slightly, and then relaxes.

“Tie it back up,” he whispers, leaning in close to ensure he’s heard by Yuji, and Yuji only. “I want you to leave it on a little longer.”

Yuji swallows. “Have…have I displeased you, my lord?”

Satoru leans in close enough that they’re forehead to forehead, now, and makes sure his bride meets his eyes when he says, “Not at all, Yuji-kun. I’m just not ready to share you, yet.”

Yuji blushes, and his scent faintly flutters with pleasure. From behind the curtain there comes a loud, obnoxious yawn—this time, the source is undeniable, and clearly Yuji recognises its owner, too, because his head spins around, expression outraged as he glares over in Zenin Naoya’s direction. 

With one hand still wrapped loosely around Yuji’s wrist, Satoru uses the other to cup his cheek, and guides his bride’s gaze gently but firmly back to his.

“Never mind him,” he says. “Focus on me.”

And before Yuji can let himself be distracted, again, Satoru kisses him.

Yuji’s a natural at kissing—something Satoru was very pleased to discover, when they kissed for the first time in the gardens, and something he enjoys all the more now. He’s tense at first, of course, lips hesitant as he no doubt still has their audience on his mind, but then Satoru presses in further; opens his mouth and runs his tongue, gentle but insistent, along the seam of Yuji’s own. It’s only a second or two before Yuji opens for him—his mouth soft, his lips moving against Satoru’s with more confidence, now, as his hesitations fade away and the jagged spike of anxiety in his scent smooths out.

Satoru breaks off the kiss to let them breathe, pulling back only a little so that they’re still sharing the same breath. They watch each other through eyes half lidded, panting softly, and all’s silent from behind the curtain.

“There we go,” Satoru murmurs into the space between their lips. “You remember how to do this, don’t you?”

Yuji’s eyes, warm molten amber, flick down to Satoru’s mouth as he speaks. He nods. 

“I remember,” he says, and this time, he’s the one who leans in. To Satoru’s surprise and delight, Yuji’s the one who closes the gap between them, and initiates their third kiss of the evening.

Beneath the soft silk of his kimono, Satoru’s cock twitches with interest.

Oh, there you are, he thinks. I was wondering when you’d make an appearance.

He deepens the kiss. Moves his hand from Yuji’s cheek down over his throat, runs it over his chest and squeezes— enjoys the soft whine Yuji murmurs into his mouth, when Satoru’s thumb brushes across the outline of his nipple, through the fabric. But he doesn’t linger there, at least for now. Instead his hand travels further downward, to settle at Yuji’s hip.

With Satoru’s other hand, he takes the plunge and guides Yuji’s palm between his legs. Yuji gasps into their kiss and breaks it off, but that’s all right. Despite his surprise, Yuji’s hand stays where it is, and—

His grip tightens, ever-so-slightly, around the head of Satoru’s cock. 

Satoru shivers. “Good boy,” he sighs, and starts to press an indulgent line of kisses across Yuji’s cheek as Yuji’s pheromones soar , at the praise. Scenting them, he smirks against Yuji’s ear, and whispers, “I’m going to assume, seeing as you’ve got one of your own…” Here he shifts his own hand to ghost, feather-light, across the space where he knows Yuji’s cock must be without quite making contact. “That you know what to do with this?” He thrusts forward, slightly, seeking the warm pressure of Yuji’s palm, and leans back a little to gage Yuji’s face for a response.

Yuji’s cheeks are flushed a fierce, burning red, his eyes squeezed shut with apparent embarrassment, but at Satoru’s question, he nods. His eyes flutter open, a spark of fierce determination flickering to life in their amber depths.

And slowly, delicately…he begins to move his hand. 

It’s clumsy. Unpractised, and the movements a little awkward, as expected of someone who’s only done this to himself, before. 

But it feels good . 

Satoru breathes in deeply, at Yuji’s neck, taking his time on the inhale of Yuji’s sweet orange blossom scent and noticing, in the process, how it’s combined with an unmistakable perfume derived from the jasmine and camellia that populate the estate’s flower fields.

Jasmine and camellia, he thinks, and almost laughs out loud at the heavy-handedness of the choice by his family attendants. 

Purity, longing and eternal love.

Truth is, they wasted the scented oil and their own time, in applying it. Because now that things are well and truly underway, between Satoru and his bride, their mingled scents are bound to overpower it completely within a matter of minutes. 

–*--

Behind the partition, Zenin Naoya gives a derisive snort.

“The boy is a whore,” he says bluntly, eyes lazily tracking the movement of Itadori Yuji’s hand on his lawful husband’s cock.

Beside him, Uraume bristles. “I assure you he is pure, Zenin,” they intone coldly. “Sukuna-sama would never have offered up used goods to the Gojo heir.”

Two seats down from Naoya, with Kamo Noritoshi between them fighting, with everything in his power, not to demonstrate any interest whatsoever in the scene before them, Okkotsu Yuta lets out a quiet, beleaguered sigh. 

“Oh, of course not,” Naoya drawls. “Only the best for the Gojo heir .” The implied, Never mind the rest of us goes far too loudly unsaid. 

A tragically short peace, broken only by the soft, subtle murmurings of the lovers at the centre of the room, and then, “For fuck’s sake. What do they keep whispering about?”

“I don’t believe,” comes a hiss from the other side of the seating arrangement, and Yuta recognises the voice as belonging to the Lady Kugisaki, “that Ryomen Sukuna requested your running commentary in the agreement, Naoya-san.”

“Quiet, hag.”

“How dare— ”

Yuta’s pheromones, having laid dormant for the most part, since the start of the ceremony, flicker faintly to life in warning, and he feels the ripple of their effect through the whole audience as everyone winces, and Lady Kugisaki falls silent. 

Yuta sends a private prayer to the Gods and to Satoru, both, for his cousin to get this over with quickly. 

–*--

Yuji never imagined touching another man down there would feel so…

Different. 

In theory, he supposes it’s the same. The same blunt, warm head, the same firm shaft, the same thrum of hot blood pumping through the veins, though Yuji can only mostly feel all of these things, through Satoru’s kimono. 

And in practice, well. Satoru‘s is certainly longer, than Yuji’s. Thicker, too, to the extent that Yuji’s mouth starts to dry out, imagining where it needs to go tonight. 

He swallows, and increases the pace of his movements. Enjoys the way it prompts a soft groan of surprised delight, from his husband, and the way Satoru’s scent peaks with interest every time Yuji’s hand envelopes the head.

Satoru kisses him again, and Yuji turns his head into it—as natural as breathing, now, and he thinks he’s starting to get the hang of what angles work best for them. And of how best to move his lips and tongue in tandem with Satoru’s own in a way that intensifies the enjoyment for them both. 

Underneath Yuji’s kimono, he’s hard as a rock. He squirms uncomfortably, still on his knees and not used to being in this state for so long without relief, and wonders if his husband would be offended, if he were to reach down with his spare hand and—

As if reading Yuji’s mind, Satoru acts. Shifts his hand from where it’s been resting, most comfortably, at Yuji’s hip, and trails it across Yuji’s clothed thigh until it reaches the open seam of Yuji’s kimono, fingertips just lightly brushing Yuji’s bare skin beneath. Here, he pauses for just the slightest breath and Yuji pauses, too, in his own movements, as they each back gently out of the kiss to exchange a heated, half-lidded gaze.

And then Satoru slips his naked hand beneath the silk, and closes it around Yuji’s erection.

It’s the first time Yuji’s ever been touched there by a hand that wasn’t his own.

Yuji moans, his eyes falling shut with giddy pleasure as his dick throbs under Satoru’s fingers. He feels Satoru’s lips on his, then pressed against his cheeks, his temple, the line of his jaw. He feels Satoru’s warm breath against his neck as his husband starts to move his hand, his motions practised, precise. In Yuji’s lap, the fabric bulges obscenely with each upward stroke, and Yuji feels embarrassment threaten to take hold, remembering their audience.

On impulse, he buries his face in the smooth, warm plane of Satoru’s collarbone. Breathes in the thick, dark scent of Satoru’s arousal as it emanates from him in waves, and wonders if Satoru can smell the desire in Yuji’s pheromones, too.

It's at this point Yuji remembers that his own hand is still fixed in place, over Satoru’s dick, and he hastily starts to move it again. But he soon finds himself frustrated, in his distracted pleasure, by the way the fabric interferes with his grip until, after his fingers slip fruitlessly against it for the fourth or fifth time, he lets out a frustrated whine against Satoru’s neck.

Satoru’s throat vibrates with his laughter, and his husband’s hand comes down to gently move Yuji’s away.

Before Yuji can protest, Satoru gives him something else to feel frustrated by; he pulls away completely, putting several inches between them as he sits back on his heels. He meets the loud question in Yuji’s eyes with a sly smirk, and reaches back behind himself to loosen the tie of his kimono. Yuji watches, mesmerised, as he slides the obi out of the garment altogether and tosses it aside.

Which leaves…

Before Yuji can even fully process that it’s about to happen, Satoru shrugs the rich purple silk of his kimono off of his shoulders, and lets it fall completely to the floor.

Yuji’s heart beat thrums in his ears as he stares at his husband’s bare form. He drinks it all in: the smooth, thickly muscled planes of his husband’s body, previously so deceptively well-hidden, beneath his clothes; the sheer bulk of his arms, his chest, his thighs—befitting of an alpha, Yuji thinks with no small amount of pride, who could stand his ground against Ryomen Sukuna and win.

But Yuji notices the scars, too. Even in the low light of the bedchamber, he couldn’t miss them: several small circular ones, marring the long, pale line of his thigh, and one jagged, nasty gouge that runs the full length of his torso from clavicle to hip.

“How…” he starts to ask, and then his eyes flick downwards, from Satoru’s stomach, and his breath catches in his throat. 

By the Gods, he thinks, face blooming scarlet. It’s even bigger than I thought.

—*—

Behind the partition, Naoya leans forward with sudden interest. Next to him, Noritoshi sits stiffly with his arms folded tightly in front of his body, as though if he tenses up enough no one will notice the fact that his alpha pheromones are currently going haywire in such close proximity to an aroused omega. 

“That scar,” he says quietly, glancing questioningly at Yuta. “Was it Sukuna?”

“Of course not,” Naoya answers before Yuta can even open his mouth. “Sukuna never put a scratch on him.”

On Naoya’s other side, Uraume frowns but offers no argument. They know as well as Yuta does that it’s the truth. 

“It was Toji-kun,” Naoya continues, his voice laced with uncharacteristic awe. “Toji-kun did it, I’m certain.”

He’s right, of course, but Yuta doesn’t give him the satisfaction of confirming. Satoru told him the story a few years ago, now, and though he didn’t see any shame in it, Yuta’s always felt like the incident with Fushiguro Toji was Satoru’s business and Satoru’s alone—no matter how many times Zenin Naoya tried to poke his nose into it.

Yuta would be willing to argue there are other things that should have stayed Satoru’s private business, too, but here they are. 

At the centre of the room, Satoru closes the gap between himself and Itadori once more. 

—*—

Satoru wasn’t exactly considering the impact baring himself to his bride would have on Yuji when he shed his kimono. He just thought Yuji was so cute , trying and failing over and over to get his hand on his cock, that he decided he would make it easier for him. 

But he sees the surprise in Yuji’s eyes. Hears the soft intake of breath and, beyond that, senses the change in his pheromones, from aroused to concerned, at the sight of Satoru’s scar. 

“How…” Yuji starts, and—

Later , Satoru thinks, just on the edge of reassuring Yuji out loud when Yuji’s eyes skim down and, well.

The pheromones shift again as Yuji flushes, eyes widening in a different kind of surprise.

“How?” he asks, voice strangled, and Satoru can’t hold back a soft snicker. He crosses the space between them until they’re close enough to kiss, again, but he doesn’t bridge that final gap. Instead, he reaches over and grips Yuji’s shoulder; experiences a brief moment of resentment, at the feeling of the fabric between his hand and Yuji’s bare skin.

“You know, Yuji,” he teases, and gently pushes Yuji backward, “you should be more careful.” He lowers Yuji down onto his back, on the mat. “If you keep looking at me like that—” He crawls over Yuji’s body until he’s braced above him, face-to-face, then smirks down through the inch or so still remaining between them. “I’ll get self-conscious.”

Yuji’s eyes flit up from Satoru’s lips to his eyes, at this last statement, and to his credit, he does look mildly apologetic when he says, “I’m sorry, Satoru-sama. But can you…” His eyes flick down to Satoru’s lips again .

“Can I…?” Satoru can’t resist teasing him, though he knows easy as anything his little bride is asking for a kiss.

Yuji stares up at him, his eyes pleading but intent. “Can you touch me again?” he asks.

Satoru feels the smile slip from his face as this time, it’s his own pheromones that shift the atmosphere of the room. 

“Of course,” he breathes, and kisses Yuji anyway.

He reaches down and gets a grip on the edge of the red kimono, right where it’s already partially opened, at Yuji’s thighs. With a sharp tug he parts it further, enough to free Yuji’s cock to his touch but not enough that any member of their audience will get to see it, with Satoru on top of him blocking the view. Though the thought aggravates him to consider, Satoru knows he won’t be able to protect Yuji from their gazes much longer, as over the course of the consummation the kimono is sure to come off. But if he can spare Yuji that indignity as long as possible, he’ll do whatever it takes. 

Yuji’s cock is warm and still at full mast, when Satoru gets his hand on it again. He feels it twitch beneath his fingers as if in greeting, having missed and longed for his touch, and the thought makes him shiver, his own erection throbbing with the need to feel Yuji’s hand again, too. Luckily, Yuji’s quick on the uptake, and the sensation of his hand closing around Satoru’s cock without a barrier between them makes Satoru moan again, into their kiss, as he thrusts shamelessly forward into Yuji’s grip. 

He loses track of how long they jerk each other off like that, because it feels good and he knows it’s making Yuji feel good, too. Can tell by the sound of Yuji’s breaths quickening, by the feel of Yuji’s hips shifting restlessly beneath his own, can tell by the scent of Yuji’s pheromones and—

Oh , he thinks, and his hand stills, his inner alpha roaring to life when he catches the sultry sweet smell of Yuji’s slick in the air between them. 

Which means Yuji is wet. For him.

The smell is a mix of Yuji’s natural orange blossom scent and the sweet spiced musk of arousal. Satoru’s mouth waters as it hits the back of his tongue, and a thousand filthy thoughts cross his mind all at once .

It feels like a scent that’s been tailored specifically to appeal to alphas—which, in the grand scheme of things, it probably has. Satoru inhales deep through his mouth and exhales through his nose, trying to stave off the effects the scent is having on him. He can hear his own heart pumping hard and fast in his ears, near deafening in its sudden intensity, and he wants nothing more right this second than to flip the omega beneath him over and pound him into the floor . 

No, not the omega, he berates himself. His nails grip the mat so tight he gouges a hole in the straw. This is Yuji.

Itadori Yuji.

Yuji must not have realised what’s got Satoru distracted, because he pauses in his own movements and glances up at Satoru’s face, innocent curiosity quickly shifting to concerned hesitation when he glimpses the look in Satoru’s eyes. 

Satoru looks down at Yuji and wonders if his bride even realises how good he smells.

He wonders if Yuji understands how much restraint Satoru is exorcising, in not spreading his legs and plunging his cock inside right here and now. 

If this is how it feels now, he thinks, t hen how is it gonna feel when he’s…

Mine?

“Yuji,” Satoru says, voice tight. “You...”

He watches Yuji breathe in and sees, in his young bride’s face, the moment Yuji scents the change in Satoru’s pheromones. Sees his eyes go wide and smells the faintest hint of fear cut through the desire in his scent.

And then immediately loses track of it, as Yuji’s eyes fall to half mast, and he brings his hand up to gently cup Satoru’s wrist where it’s braced beside his head. 

“Satoru-sama,” he murmurs, and Satoru surely isn’t imagining it, right? Surely he isn’t imagining the way the smell of Yuji’s slick just got even more obvious?

“I…” Yuji says, and then—

Flinches, because he senses the same thing Satoru does, in the same instant that Satoru does.

The unmistakable peaked interest of an unwelcome alpha.

As one they turn to face the partition.

No, Satoru thinks savagely, gritting his teeth as he parses the scent out more clearly. Two unwelcome alphas.

Noritoshi he can let slide, to a point; the kid’s a virgin and he’s probably never been this close to a turned on omega in his life. But if it goes further than this, Satoru won’t be so forgiving.

Naoya’s a different story, albeit a grimly expected one. Satoru knows damn well Naoya could control his body’s reaction better than this, if he wanted to. Knows damn well Naoya’s only letting Satoru sense his attraction because he wants to piss him off. Knows he’s making Yuji sense it because he wants to make him uncomfortable.

Satoru’s weighing up whether he’s willing to tear down the curtain and fight Naoya buck naked for the insult, when he feels a warm hand on his cheek and hears, “Satoru-sama,” from below.

Satoru directs his attention downwards again, and sees Yuji looking up at him, eyes beseeching.

“Never mind him,” Yuji says, echoing Satoru’s own words from before. He smiles, soft and sweet. “Focus on me?”

Satoru hears him, loud and clear. He leans down and kisses Yuji slow and tender, like a dream. Feels his anger fade and start to melt away as he loses himself in his bride’s embrace, and feels the fear and discomfort ease out from Yuji’s scent as, thankfully, their own pheromones overpower the others’ that have no business being in the room with them now in the first place.

All the same, Satoru’s done with taking it slow. They’ll have plenty of time for that later, after all—they’ll have days, weeks, months, years ahead of them to learn each other’s bodies at their own pace, and to do so as many times and in as many positions and variations as possible. There’s already so much Satoru wants to try with Yuji; already so much he’s certain Yuji would enjoy, that Yuji would excel at, that would make Yuji sigh and squirm and scream , for him, and he’s looking forward to it all. 

But first.

They just need to get through tonight.

“Yuji,” he whispers, and pulls back. Takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Yuji’s face, cheeks and lips flushed with the heat of their kissing, before he continues. 

“Is it okay if I touch you somewhere else, now?”

--*--

“You should be more careful,” Yuta warns Naoya, once the moment of danger has passed and the violence in Satoru’s scent has waned.

Naoya sneers. “Your concern is noted, brat, but I can take care of myself. And besides—” He jerks a thumb at Noritoshi, who is looking significantly less relaxed about the catastrophic political incident that just very nearly occurred. “Why don’t you lecture him, too?”

Noritoshi stiffens, face hot. “I apologise for my lack of control, Okkotsu-san. I meant no offence. It’s just that Itadori-san’s scent was…”

“It’s fine,” Yuta says quickly, waving off any uncomfortable elaborations on that thought. “But Naoya-san’s right.” Over Noritoshi’s shoulder, Naoya’s eyebrows rise with spiteful delight at such words ever coming out of Yuta’s mouth. “You should be careful, too. Satoru looked about ready to challenge you both just now, and damn the consequences.”

Yuta’s thankful for both the fact that he’s already bonded, and the fact that he’s never been particularly attracted to omega in the first place, so that he didn’t have to stare down the barrel of his cousin’s ire as well.

At this point, Uraume chimes in. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” they mutter. “Why agree to the terms at all if he was going to be so dramatic about it?”

A pause.

“Was Sukuna and Zenin Megumi’s bedding public as well, Uraume-san?” To Yuta’s surprise, the voice comes from Ichida, one of the older members of the grand council and no particular friend to the Gojo clan.

A longer, more uncomfortable pause, then—

“No,” Uraume admits, voice and posture stiff, and Naoya barks a laugh.

“He really does despise the boy, doesn’t he,” Naoya muses, voice sounding far too pleased with this fact than it has any right to be. He directs his attention forwards again, and rolls his eyes to see Satoru and Itadori still wrapped up in each other like two newlyweds ought to be. “Gods, but these two are so boring. ”

Yuta doesn’t dignify this with a response.

I wish Maki-san was here , he thinks longingly, remembering how hard she punched her cousin the last time they were both in the same room together.

“I thought Yuji-kun would cry at least a little, you know?”

Oh well. Maybe next time.

--*--

When Satoru slips his first finger inside, he finds Yuji wet and warm and—

Tight. Near impossibly so, and he only grips tighter at Satoru’s intrusion. 

“ Satoru-sama,” he gasps, and to his credit it’s pitched with only the slightest edge of pain.

Satoru’s pheromones rush in to soothe him all the same, and he keeps his finger where it is. “Sorry, Yuji-kun,” he says, and then frowns. “Did the attendants not prepare you for this?” He’ll be sure to make sure they hear his thoughts on the matter, if so. 

Yuji averts his eyes, expression oddly contrite. “I, um,” he stammers, eyes darting back to meet Satoru’s as Satoru raises a single wry eyebrow in question. “I told them not to.”

“Oh?” asks Satoru, and decides to try his luck now that Yuji’s distracted. Slowly, he pushes further inside, and enjoys the way Yuji trembles, at the sensation, but doesn’t clamp down like before. “Why?”

Yuji’s face flushes, scent flickering with a slight sense of discomfort, and Satoru pauses again. “Yuji?” he asks.

“Well, I guess I feel a little foolish now,” Yuji admits at last. “But I…” He trails off, clearly debating whether he wants to elaborate further, and then: “I didn’t really want anyone touching me there, other than you.”

Satoru feels a near audible snap in his self-control, as his brain finishes processing this information, and in one smooth movement, he presses inside Yuji to the knuckle.

Yuji moans, back arching under the sensation of Satoru’s finger touching him more deeply than anyone else ever has or will. 

“I see,” is all Satoru says, and hopes the sharp spike of desire in his pheromones does the work in showing Yuji just how far from foolish he finds this revelation to be. Judging by the fresh wave of slick that eases Satoru’s way, at that moment, so that he’s able to add a second finger with no trouble at all, it does the work perfectly.

He fucks Yuji open with his fingers for a little while, after that. Relishes in the ragged moans and broken off sighs he coaxes forth from his bride as he presses deeper, spreads his fingers wider, and leans in without hesitation when Yuji surges upwards to kiss him.

Somewhere in the vicinity of Yuji’s bare thigh, Satoru’s cock throbs, reminding him that it’s been unattended for several minutes now, and misses the sweet friction of his bride’s hand. But Yuji’s hands are quite occupied, at the moment, with clinging cutely to Satoru’s biceps, and in any case…

Satoru has a feeling that what comes next will be worth the wait.

Yuji grows wetter by the second, and though Satoru’s started adjusting to the sensory overload that is Yuji’s arousal, he still feels a feral rush in his ears and an iron taste in his mouth with every eager pulse of Yuji’s pheromones, every new wave of his slick. With every slight movement and every small, bitten off sound.

He adds his third finger without resistance, and Yuji moans so loud it echoes off the walls. Satoru stares voraciously down at him as he spreads him, three fingers wide, and feels his mouth water at the thick scent of the slick coating his hand, his wrist. Who would have guessed, he muses, that his innocent little virgin bride would be so shameless beneath him?

He longs to taste Yuji’s slick at its source. Longs to feel Yuji’s thighs wrapped around his neck as he lathes his tongue over Yuji’s hole again and again and again, reducing his bride to a dripping, weeping mess. 

I’ve got a pretty good idea of how it works, Yuji told him in the gardens, but Satoru wonders. Does Yuji really know all the ways two people can learn each other’s bodies? Does Yuji really know all the ways a man can please his lover?

Satoru wants to teach him. Show him. Satoru will show him, and he pauses in his ministrations, for a moment, with that endeavour in mind.

And then he senses, from across the room…

The acrid stench of the other alphas. Naoya and Noritoshi, again, and this time there’s no mistaking the arousal in their pheromones; no ambiguity over what they want and who they want it from, because of course, how could they resist? Still, Satoru’s lip curls in disgust as he shifts back up to a kneeling position over Yuji’s hips, anger lancing through his own scent at the thought. That they would dare lay eyes on Yuji. That they would dare be close enough to smell him like this, as Satoru is. That they would dare covet or harbour the slightest trace of desire for him at all.

And yet there’s nothing he can do about it, is there? This was the agreement, after all. These were the terms. A public consummation , and nothing to be said for how the witnesses behave during the act. So as much as he longs to bare his teeth, to growl and snap and challenge them, to throw them out or fight them or worse, doing so will only prolong the ordeal, will only endanger the fragile peace of the realm further.

And beyond that, he’s sure it would upset Yuji, too.

Yuji, who’s looking up at him now, concern writ plain in his expression, as he’s no doubt sensed the change in Satoru’s scent. Their eyes meet, and Yuji shoots him a soft, sad look of understanding—confirming Satoru’s worry. That he can smell the other alphas, too. That he’s aware of their eyes on him, and the eyes of all the others behind that screen. That he, like Satoru, recognises the fact that they’ve been forced to make a spectacle of their first night together, and that he, like Satoru, has already deduced that to fight this fact is a battle not even the strongest alpha in the country could win.

“Satoru-sama,” he pants, and props himself up on his elbows. At Satoru’s questioning glance, he blushes, glancing down between his own legs where Satoru’s fingers are still buried deep inside. Satoru follows his gaze, momentarily distracted as he enjoys the sight of Yuji’s hole stretched so nice and pink around his digits.

Yuji shifts uncomfortably in place, his body clenching gently around Satoru’s fingers as he does so, and then he says, “I…I don’t think you have to prepare me, anymore. I think I’m ready.” He swallows as Satoru’s scorching gaze meets his, understanding clear.

“I’m ready for you to put it in.”

–*--

Yuji winces when Satoru pulls his fingers free; feels his body twitch and clench uncomfortably around the phantom of their shape a few times before it can accept that they’re gone.

Never in his wildest dreams—even caught up in the throes of his heat—could he have imagined his body stretching to accommodate fingers so thick. So long. He lets out a shuddering exhale, still adjusting to their loss, and looks up, vision hazy, from the space between his legs to watch as without breaking eye contact Satoru—

Satoru brings his slick-soaked fingers to his mouth and closes his lips around them with a shameless, self-satisfied hum.  

Yuji makes an embarrassing noise that he will never admit is a squeak, and reaches up without thinking to grab hold of Satoru’s wrist and tug his hand out of his mouth.

“Don’t,” he gasps, then, “It’s dirty.”

But his husband only smirks. “It’s divine,” he argues, but concedes to Yuji’s discomfort and doesn’t do it again.

Instead, his hand moves with the other to settle at Yuji’s hips, and he squeezes them lightly, looking down at Yuji’s erection with an intensity that would border on humiliating, if Yuji hadn’t already been exposed enough to him as it is.

Yuji inhales, head spinning with the overwhelming strength of his husband’s pheromones as they radiate outwards, over and over, his arousal as loudly telegraphed by his scent as by the cock standing proud between his legs.

When Satoru looks up again, his eyes are gleaming that same otherworldly blue as they did earlier, during his confrontation with Naoya. The blue glow of his inner alpha taking over, and Yuji locks eyes with him, mesmerised by the sight of it and the fact that he, Yuji, is the one who brought it to the surface. Not just now but back then, too. He doesn’t know whether he should feel excited, frightened, or some mad combination of both, but he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it, just a little.

In any case, Satoru blinks then, and the glow dims. But Yuji doesn’t have time to mourn its loss, as Satoru moves to lean over him again. Braces himself above Yuji, his palms resting at either side of Yuji’s head so they’re eye-to-eye—his eyes still breathtakingly beautiful but just his more familiar blue, now. 

Yuji feels the blunt, warm head of Satoru’s cock brush against his inner thigh and moans, legs spreading wider as his own inner instincts take over because he knows. He knows what Satoru wants, he knows where Satoru’s cock needs to go.

And he knows that he wants it there, too.

He only wishes…

No, he tells himself, firm. Don’t think about it. But even as the thought crosses his mind, he feels the prickle across his skin. Feels the itch of their stares all over, and grits his teeth against the indignity of it.

A soft click sounds off, right next to Yuji’s ear, and he jumps, eyes refocusing as he blinks back up at Satoru in bemusement. Satoru watches him, an inscrutable expression on his face as he relaxes his hand against the mat again. “Are you gonna make me say it again, Yuji-kun?” he murmurs, and at Yuji’s questioning stare, clarifies, “Focus on me .” He smirks. “I can tell, you know. When your mind travels.”

Yuji scowls up at him, embarrassed but haughty about it. “Stay out of my mind,” he complains, and then, “You’re one to talk. Your pheromones are—” He’s cut off as another wave of Satoru’s rich seasalt scent washes over him, and shivers, completely forgetting what he was going to say.

“This next part,” Satoru breathes, voice deep and faintly ragged with his desire, “will be easier for us both if you turn over.”

Yuji’s heart stutters. “O-Oh,” he says, stamping down the unwelcome sense of disappointment that threatens to take hold inside his heart. Because Satoru is completely right, of course. There’s a reason what they’re about to do is usually done from behind. More fool him, to have expected their first time to be face-to-face.

More fool him, to still be holding onto such a petty sense of sentimentality when that was never what tonight was supposed to be about, anyway.

There’ll be time for that later, Yuji thinks, and starts to shift over onto his stomach, as instructed. But Satoru’s hand on his arm stops him, and he looks over at his husband, confused.

Satoru looks uncharacteristically vulnerable, as if he feels like he’s asking for something he shouldn’t, when he says, “Could you take the kimono off, now?” Then, “I want to see you. All of you. Even if—" His eyes flick over to their audience, a bitterness edging their depths, and Yuji acts without thinking. Reaches over to cup his cheek, again, and gives him his answer.

“Help me?”

Satoru sheds Yuji of the kimono he gave him with a reverence that borders on worship. Though they’ve already touched each other in all sorts of ways, tonight, Yuji can’t help but shiver self-consciously at the brush of Satoru’s knuckles against his skin; at the warmth in the tips of his fingers, as he unfolds the fabric from Yuji’s body like the unwrapping of a treasured gift. Here, then, is another thing Yuji never could have imagined about sex. A type of tender intimacy he never dared to think he would experience with Gojo Satoru. 

No, he reminds himself. You already went through this, idiot. No more.

This isn’t the time to be sentimental.

He turns over; raises himself up on all fours as Satoru asked of him, and shivers when he feels Satoru’s lips graze the back of his neck.

“It might be a little uncomfortable at first,” Satoru murmurs in his ear, running his hand in a soothing line down Yuji’s flank. “Try and bear it, but if it hurts you I’ll stop.”

Yuji swallows, eyes fixed forward on the thin shoji panelling of the wall at the other end of the room. “You don’t have to,” he says. One way or another, it has to be done. And he knows now that Satoru isn’t who he thought he was. Satoru isn’t the kind of alpha who takes pleasure in causing pain, so if he has no choice in the matter, like now, Yuji’ll forgive him for it. With this in mind he adds, a touch cheekily, “I never got around to telling you before, but I’m good at handling pain.”

A considerate silence, then, “But you don’t have to.” Satoru throws Yuji’s own words back at him. “You don’t have to handle it anymore.” And Yuji—

Yuji has no idea what to say in answer, so he says nothing at all. Hopes his pheromones convey the queer sense of gratitude, elation and wistful, hopeful longing Satoru’s words have roused from him better than his words ever could.

Judging by the way Satoru’s scent flares, warm and reassuring in response, they do.

No more words need speaking. Satoru presses one last kiss to his temple, and then straightens up. Positions himself properly behind him, and grabs hold of Yuji’s hip to hold him still as, with his spare hand, he guides the head of his cock to Yuji’s hole. 

He holds it there a moment, pressing hot and heavy against Yuji’s rim for long enough that Yuji, half-mad with nervous anticipation, starts to consider how much strength it would take to press back on it himself, forcing it inside.

Satoru takes in a long, shaking breath, and then releases. “It’ll be over soon,” he says, voice low and barely audible, and Yuji’s last coherent thought is wondering: Is he talking to me, or himself? 

Because it’s at this point that Satoru thrusts forward in one single, decisive movement, and Yuji takes his husband’s cock inside him for the very first time.

To Satoru’s credit, it doesn’t hurt.

But Yuji gasps in shock, all the same, as he feels the head breach his rim and then go further. As he feels the thick, hot weight of it spread him open, inch by torturous inch, and then stop in place not even halfway inside as Satoru, his nails digging half-moon divots into Yuji’s hips, makes a sound like a man who’s been punched and shudders.

“Fuck,” he curses, and Yuji moans softly, in answer, arching his back slightly as his body adjusts to the intrusion of Satoru’s cock. 

It’s so much thicker than Satoru’s fingers. It’s so much thicker than anything Yuji could have imagined. 

It feels—

Amazing. 

Satoru’s pheromones have long since filled the room with an unrelenting, indisputable atmosphere of his arousal. At this point, the scent of it is so thick in the air Yuji’s long lost track of the other alphas’ scents, and he couldn’t even smell his own pheromones if he tried. But the haze of it is making Yuji’s head spin; making his heart race and his blood feel hot as it pumps through his veins. 

He wants more. Needs more. But at his rear, Satoru isn’t moving.

“S-Satoru-sama,” Yuji rasps, afraid to turn in fear of seeing any disappointment in his husband’s eyes, when he meets them. “Does…does it feel g-good for you, too?”

A quick intake of breath, and then a pause, and then Yuji feels the warm weight of Satoru’s chest, at his back, as his husband leans forward.

“Yes,” Satoru groans into Yuji’s ear, nipping lightly at the shell of it in a way that makes Yuji tremble. “Yes,” he repeats, and Yuji feels his lips at the back of neck again. “It feels so good, Yuji-kun. So warm and tight.” Without warning he grinds his hips against Yuji’s at this slightly new angle, pressing further inside in a way that makes Yuji’s toes curl, and he whines—

“Then why did you stop?”

Satoru has the audacity to chuckle, the sound of it low and wicked into Yuji’s neck. “I stopped because it’s too good . I almost lost control.” He licks an obscene line up the side of Yuji’s throat, teeth tracing ever so faintly across the skin, and Yuji feels his pulse throb with a want he dares not put a name to but recognises right away.

“You should— ah. ” Yuji’s voice breaks off on a sigh as Satoru grinds inside him again, the length of his dick pressing against parts so deep inside Yuji he never would have thought they existed, if not for the way they burn with desire at every slight brush of it against them. “You should keep going,” he whispers, biting his lip, and he feels as if he can see Satoru’s smirk right in front of him, as his husband intuits what the words really mean.

Go ahead. 

Lose control.

–*-

Chapter Text

“You should keep going.”

Satoru smirks and straightens up again. Grabs Yuji’s hips and takes a moment to enjoy the view of his bride’s smooth, toned bronze back, the way it shimmers with a faint sheen of sweat. Wants to taste as well but resists, focuses his eyes downwards instead, at the sight of Yuji’s ass spread open on his cock.

Yuji’s rim is so prettily stretched to accommodate him, pink and shining with slick. As Satoru watches, it twitches slightly around him as if trying—and happily failing—to adjust to his size.

You should keep going . And so Satoru does.

Slowly, he pulls out in a long, languid drag. Runs a soothing thumb across the curve of Yuji’s hip as Yuji trembles, whimpering at the sensation. Satoru starts to inch back inside, and can’t hold back a satisfied sigh as Yuji’s guts clench around his cock, squeezing him tight like Yuji’s trying to suck him in—and here, there’s no failure to be found. Here, Yuji passes with flying colours.

Satoru huffs a breath and, excruciatingly slowly and with his grip tightening on Yuji’s hips for leverage as he does it, he bottoms out. Buries his cock in Yuji’s hole to the hilt and stays there, head thrown back as he bites his lip and relishes in experiencing his bride's deepest parts around his cock for the first time. 

Satoru’s no stranger to sex. No stranger to omegas, either, though they’ve never been his first preference. But something about this—something about Itadori Yuji feels different. Satoru doesn’t know what it is, couldn’t place it right now if his life depended on it, but something shifted in his brain, the moment he first kissed Yuji, in the gardens, or perhaps even earlier. Perhaps something changed the first time they ever locked eyes, and Satoru is only truly feeling it now for what it is. And he feels it right down to his bones.

He never wants to leave.

Gods, but Yuji is just so warm , and every instinct in Satoru’s mind is telling him to pull out and then slam back inside. To bury himself in the blissfully soft grip of Yuji’s tight young body over and over and over until he’s completely satisfied, until his cock swells the way only an alpha’s can as his knot takes hold, as he fills his omega with come.

It’s not like Yuji would complain, surely. Yuji’s pheromones are begging Satoru to fuck him. The scent of Yuji’s slick is near burning Satoru’s nostrils with its potency. But despite everything—despite it all—he hesitates. He pauses. Again.

Yuji lets out a harsh, strangled sound that could almost pass for Satoru’s name. He turns to look back at Satoru, his amber eyes lidded, his cheeks flushed as he pants helplessly.

“What are you waiting for?”

A fresh wave of Yuji’s pheromones hits Satoru so hard his knees almost buckle. Inside him, Satoru’s cock throbs. 

He lets out a long, deep breath, and actually takes a moment, then, to consider Yuji’s question. 

What is he waiting for?

He doesn’t have to search long or hard for the answer. He need only cast his awareness outward, and slide his gaze to the left.

It’s them , he realises. It’s this.

Where they are. Why they’re here.

And who’s in here with them.

Kamo Noritoshi. Zenin Naoya. And Yuta, too, not to mention the council members and that rat, Uraume. Even now he can smell them, sense them; can feel their eyes on him and beyond that, on what’s his . Knows that some among them must be seeing Yuji, scenting Yuji, wanting Yuji, and the thought fuels the flames of bloodlust through his veins. 

You don’t belong here, he thinks with a ferocity bordering on murderous. Makes sure to infuse it into his scent, to cast it outwards as powerfully as possible so they all know. They know what he’s capable of. They know what they’re risking by being here. 

He wants them to know what he’ll do to them if they step one single foot out of line past this point. 

Below him, Yuji whines in reaction to the change in Satoru’s scent, his pheromones sharpening with fear and distress as his hole— oh, fuck— his hole squeezes , and Satoru swears out loud.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing a soothing hand down Yuji’s trembling back. He lets himself be momentarily distracted from his vendetta against the other occupants of the room, softens his pheromones and hones them into calming Yuji, comforting Yuji. “It’s okay, Yuji-kun. Sweetheart.” The endearment slips out completely of its own accord, but Satoru can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed when he sees how Yuji’s scent settles, how his trembling subsides beneath Satoru’s touch. “You’re being so good for me.”

“Satoru-san,” Yuji whispers, and Satoru’s mind stutters to a stop, at the drop in formality. “Please.”

And in the end, that’s all that it takes. For Satoru to forget about their audience, for now, and focus on what really matters.

He’s got a marriage to consummate. He’s got a mating bond to forge.

And above all—

He’s got a bride to please.

Let them watch, he thinks, cock sliding out for the second time as he reaches down; as he grabs the back of Yuji’s head by his hair and gently tugs , eliciting a positively sinful moan from him as his back arches perfectly, as his hole tightens deliciously, and—

And Satoru starts to fuck him. Properly.

Let them see how a true alpha claims what's his. 

Behind the partition, Yuta lets himself breathe for what feels like the first time in minutes , and the air bursts from his lungs like he’s just emerged from underwater. He breathes heavily like that for a long series of seconds, sweat pooling beneath his hairline, and glances over at the sharp sense of anxiety emanating from the people to his left. 

At his immediate side, Noritoshi sits fists clenched and body wracked by shudders as he looks to be moments away from throwing up. Yuta feels a stab of pity for him, and once he feels like he can breathe normally again he opens his mouth to tell the other alpha he can leave, but Naoya speaks first, on Noritoshi’s other side. 

“Overkill, much?” Naoya says, his voice feeble and ragged with the exertion, Yuta suspects, of resisting his inner alpha’s desire to cower and run beneath the onslaught of Satoru’s killing intent. Sweat drips from the Zenin in torrents, and though he looks less primed to vomit than Noritoshi, he’s still at least three shades paler than he was at the start of the bedding. 

Lady Kugisaki is the only one to respond. “He’s mad,” is all she says, and Yuta can hear her racing heartbeat from here. He considers telling her to leave, too, because she’s an old woman and this level of tension can hardly be good for that heart, but he suspects the request wouldn’t go over too well.

“He’s certainly bold,” Uraume mutters, rubbing their arm as if soothing an invisible injury there that Yuta doesn’t know about. Unsurprisingly, they seem less affected by Satoru’s pheromones than the alphas in the room, but Yuta can hear the telltale uptick in their heartbeat, too. 

Just like Lady Kugisaki and the rest of the council members. Just like Noritoshi. Just like Naoya, and—

Just like me, too, Yuta thinks, and swallows nervously. Yuta’ fought beside Satoru in battle many times by now, but prior to this he’s never had the displeasure of feeling his cousin’s bloodlust directed so pointedly at himself

Though he’s mostly sure Satoru never would have actually hurt him, he can’t say he’s eager to ever repeat the experience. 

“Noritoshi-kun,” he says softly, when the atmosphere has started to settle down somewhat, and Satoru seems sufficiently distracted with his marriage duties that another onslaught of territorial pheromones aren’t immediately forthcoming. Noritoshi turns to him, looking like someone who’s just stepped out of a warzone. “You can leave, if you want. I’m sure you’ve fulfilled your obligations to the agreement by now.”

To his surprise, Noritoshi seems perturbed by the offer. “Thank you, Okkotsu-kun, but that won’t be necessary. I’m here to represent my clan, and the consummation isn’t over.”

“He hasn’t marked him yet,” Naoya seems to concur, though judging by the way his eyes are fixed ahead, on the motions of the bride and groom in the centre of the room, Yuta doesn’t think he’s actually listening to his and Noritoshi’s conversation. “I wonder why he’s delaying it? He should have just done it at the start.”

“It’s painful,” Yuta says—a fact he’s intimately aware of, having been the only one among them to take a mating bite himself

“How unpleasant,” chimes in Marimoto, who’s been otherwise silent for the duration of the bedding. He’s a beta, and among the younger members of the council elders. “Perhaps he didn’t want the boy’s complaints to spoil the mood.”

Yuta frowns, fairly certain by now that if Satoru’s aim is to avoid hurting Itadori, it isn’t because of his bride’s complaints. No, if Yuta knows Satoru, he hasn’t bitten Itadori yet because he’s waiting for a very specific moment—a moment where Itadori will be so distracted by a certain other sensation, the pain will feel lesser by comparison.

So, “I don’t think it’s relevant when he marks him,” Yuta says blithely, casting his own pheromones out to discourage any further dialogue on the matter. “Or where he marks him, either.”

“It needs to be visible,” Uraume argues. “And it’s to be done within the bedding ceremony, with all witnesses present. Otherwise, the contract—”

“If Ryomen Sukuna had such specific conditions he needed met for this contract ,” Yuta says coldly, “then he should have shown his face here to ensure it himself.”

Uraume spins to him, a look of fury in their eyes. “Say what you want,” they snap. “The marriage has not yet been consummated.”

From the centre of the room there comes an obscene sound: the rhythmic slap of Satoru’s hips meeting Itadori’s over and over, punctuated by an increasingly wanton series of low moans from Itadori himself as he takes clear pleasure in his husband’s movements.

All’s quiet behind the curtain, and then—

Ichida clears his throat. “It seems pretty consummated to me.”

Yuta swallows, mouth dry, and feels a painful twinge in his mating mark. To his left he can feel Noritoshi and Naoya growing aroused again, and he musters his pheromones to try and smother theirs before Satoru notices.

The less distracted Satoru gets from this point on, the better.

Yuji can’t contain the sounds that burst forth from his mouth with every thrust of Satoru’s length inside, even though he knows he should. Even though he knows they’re listening. Knows they’re watching him, smelling him and judging him, too, for every sigh, every gasp and moan, every arch of his back and every thrust of his hips back to meet his husband’s.

He knows he should stop enjoying Satoru’s cock quite so obviously, so publicly . He knows he should play the part of the docile, virginal omega and lie prone on his stomach, keep silent and still, so Satoru can take his pleasure in peace until the deed is done. Yuji knows and yet—

He doesn’t care.

Because every time he feels his face heat with something other than exertion; every time he stiffens self-consciously, thinking of how he must look from the outside, and every time he feels that distant sense of shame start to creep in through the back of his subconscious, Satoru reads his mind. Satoru’s fist tightens in his hair; Satoru’s arousal crashes over him, wild and hot; Satoru breathes warm praise in his ear, and Satoru’s thrusts pick up hard and fast and deep inside him.

“Satoru-san!” he cries, knees nearly buckling beneath him with the force of Satoru’s thrusts.

“Yuji,” Satoru’s voice breaks into Yuji’s awareness like cool water on a searing wound. “Say it again.” He pulls Yuji’s hips back and aligns them at a new angle; fucks up and hits a part of Yuji’s insides that makes him see stars.

Yuji gasps, caught off guard. “W-what?” he asks, and yelps in shock when he feels Satoru embrace him, suddenly, from behind. Feels Satoru’s warmth against his back and Satoru’s arms wrapping around him, searing hot hands burning brands into his stomach and chest.

Satoru slows the pace of his thrusts to a smooth, steady grind, and breathes into the back of Yuji’s neck. “Say my name again. Please,” he adds, and then runs his tongue along Yuji’s nape ‘til Yuji’s shivering in his arms. “ Just my name.”

“Satoru,” Yuji croaks, and feels his husband’s dick twitch inside. “Satoru,” he says, louder now, and brings one of his hands up to cover Satoru’s over his heart as Satoru fucks him harder, holds him closer, squeezes him tighter. “Satoru, it feels so good,” he babbles, because he wants to make Satoru happy, because he wants to be good for him, because he never wants him to let go. “You feel so good, Satoru , I like it, I like you —”

Satoru makes a sound of raw pleasure, and Yuji feels the heat of the hand still on his stomach travel downwards. Feels it wrap around his own cock, standing almost painfully hard and leaking after all this time, and writhes in Satoru’s embrace when Satoru starts to jerk him off.  

“Oh,” he moans, then “Oh,” when he feels Satoru’s cock hit that place inside again, vision whiting out for a moment as his body reacts. Satoru’s hand speeds up, jerking him in perfect harmony with his thrusts now as they both moan together in tandem. 

Yuji’s hands slip on the mat, trying and failing to maintain his upright posture as he falls forward beneath Satoru’s weight, collapsing onto his stomach as Satoru fucks him relentlessly hard and fast. And even crammed between Yuji’s hips and the floor, Satoru’s hand doesn't falter at Yuji’s cock. 

Tears sting his eyes with the overwhelming stimulation of being pleasured so thoroughly from both sides. “Satoru,” he moans, and clenches down wickedly tight, feeling his muscles tense and his blood pumping hot through his veins as his orgasm draws closer with every stroke. “Satoru-san, Satoru- sama, I’m—”

Noritoshi shoots up and out of his seat so fast his stool falls back with a clatter. 

“I think I’ve seen enough,” he declares, voice tight and face flaming red. 

Yuta looks up at him, blearily blinking back the ever-growing headache forming behind his eyes at the overwhelming miasma of Satoru and Itadori’s combined arousal. “All…” Right, he means to say. All right. But the first word comes out slurred and sluggish, and he never gets to finish his sentence.

“Have you really?” Naoya asks, unable to let sleeping dogs lie as always. He trails his gaze over Noritoshi’s clothed crotch, and the conspicuous bulge at the centre of it that Noritoshi’s currently struggling to hide. 

Naoya smirks. “Are you sure you don’t want to see the deed through to its…completion?”

The Zenin clan head makes no effort to hide his own arousal, but Yuta wouldn’t acknowledge that he’s noticed this if his very life depended on it. 

Noritoshi scowls. “It is as Ichida-san already said. The marriage has long been consummated, and my duty is finished.”

He turns and bows stiffly first to the council elders, and then to Yuta and Naoya. He doesn’t acknowledge Uraume, which Yuta feels Uraume quite deserves. In any case, they pay him no mind. 

There’s another loud thunk and a clatter as Noritoshi leaves in such haste, he stumbles over his own stool, and then slams the door behind him. 

Yuji’s whole body jolts at the sound of a commotion, from behind the partition, and the sharp slam of a door in the distance. He whines, the sound of it high and needy and angry , his pheromones pulsing with disappointment as his orgasm recedes under the stress of the distraction. Satoru scents his unhappiness in the air and growls, protective instinct taking hold, and Yuji turns to look at him over his shoulder, eyes shining and face a flushed and drooling mess. 

Satoru just barely stops himself from coming on the spot. He leans in; kisses Yuji deep and wet, cock still buried inside but stilled, for now, as he focusses on calming his bride’s slighted pheromones. 

Yuji’s stiff in his embrace for only a moment or two before he starts to relax again, curving his upper body around and bringing his hand up to cup Satoru’s jaw as he kisses back with a soft sigh. Satoru’s fingers burn with longing to feel Yuji’s cock beneath them again. He flexes his hand where it’s settled, at the juncture between Yuji’s hip and his waist, and digs them into the skin there instead. 

It’s not enough to touch you, he thinks. To fuck you . Not enough to make you come apart in my arms. I want—

He breaks the kiss gently, watching Yuji’s eyes flutter open to regard him curiously. He still looks a little unsure, but that’s all right. Everything will be clear soon enough. 

“It’s all right,” he soothes, voice a low, gentle murmur that belies the frantic energy coursing through his entire being. “Turn back around,” he tells Yuji, and feels a thrill travel through him when Yuji obeys, scent flickering warmly. He leans in and kisses the back of Yuji’s neck in reward, and enjoys the way Yuji squeezes him, clearly pleased.

Slowly, Satoru starts to fuck him again. 

I want, he thinks, gaze fixed hungrily on the back of Yuji’s blushing neck as he picks up the pace. Wants to bite, to breach the skin, to claim. He should have done it, would have done it just then—sunk his teeth into Yuji’s nape as he brought Yuji off into his hand, if only their unwelcome guests hadn’t so rudely interrupted.

Yuji moans again, and shifts in Satoru’s arms; pushes himself up so he’s on all fours again, so he can fuck his hips back against Satoru’s with every thrust, and Oh. Satoru never could have imagined his bride would spoil him so. But…

He digs his fingers into Yuji’s hips, hard, holding them in place by force, and at Yuji’s confused sound, huffs a ragged laugh. “Is my rhythm not up to your—“ He thrusts, hard and deep, and relishes the sound of Yuji’s fractured gasp—“ standards—“ Another thrust. “Yuji-kun?” A third hard thrust, so hard the sound of his hips hitting Yuji’s ass is loud enough to almost seem painful. And before Yuji can catch his breath to answer Satoru’s fucking him at a relentless pace, his poor little bride utterly powerless to do anything but lie there and take it, face buried in the mat with his ass in the air.

And Satoru could get used to this, he thinks, as he stares down at the magnificent view this new position grants him. This view that’s his and his alone.

This view he’d fight another alpha to the death to protect—a conviction he makes sure to project across the room at large, gratified when he feels the collective recoil of their witnesses in response. All of their witnesses, this time. Not that they’ve dared make their presences particularly know for some time now, as Satoru’s been exuding his possessive intent so strongly they’d be suicidal to challenge him.

From Yuji, there are no complaints.

“Satoru,” he pants after only a few minutes. “Satoru-san, don’t stop, please, I’m—ah—I’m so close—“

Satoru smirks, smug, feeling by the sweet clench of Yuji’s hole around his cock that his bride’s on the verge of coming once more. Coming untouched, at that, and Satoru really must keep this in mind for later. 

He rakes his eyes over the back of Yuji’s neck and licks his lips, readying himself for the bite. He needs to time it just right, for the moment Yuji comes, so that his bride’s endorphins are at their height and he doesn’t feel the pain quite so intensely. Satoru’s never suffered the mating bite himself of course, but he’s heard many a horror story of how it can hurt and how it can harm, if botched, and he has no intention of inflicting such a fate on Yuji. 

Not long now, he thinks, before he reaches his own orgasm as well as Yuji’s. Before he fills his bride’s body with his come for the first time, and marks Yuji as his both inside and out. 

He lets his eyes wander down the line of Yuji’s back. Lets them catch on the curve of Yuji’s hips and the dips in his waist and imagines, mad with the lust the sight surges through his veins, how they would look filled out and round with his child.

He lets loose a feral sound, thrusts growing erratic and pheromones surging to violent new heights as in his mouth, his canines descend. Yuji writhes beneath him, scent electrifying and insides quivering as he must no doubt sense the change in Satoru’s scent. Must no doubt detect in the air what’s about to happen, because—

“Yes,” he moans, voice wild, “oh, yes, do it, do it now, I’m coming, Satoru, I’m— ”

Satoru surges down at the moment of Yuji’s completion; buries his fangs into the back of Yuji’s neck as Yuji cries out and jolts with shock then pain then something else , body spasming wildly around his cock. Satoru feels his own body shifting into instinct as his hips still, pheromones flaring as he pumps them directly into Yuji’s bloodstream through the bite.

He tastes iron, salt and orange blossom, sickly sweet under his tongue, and feels his eyes roll back and then fall closed as he’s overwhelmed by the rush of giddy pleasure that rockets through his lungs and into his veins. Yuji shudders violently beneath him as the bite takes, groans muffled into the mat as his knees collapse and he falls to lie flat on his stomach once more, pinned and held in place by the bulk of Satoru’s body. 

Satoru lathes his tongue in a gentle, soothing motion over the bite, infusing as much healing energy as he can into the broken skin to stem the trickle of Yuji’s blood still oozing out. His frame’s wracked with shivers as even now, he feels the change taking hold; feels his pheromones mingling and blending with Yuji’s own in a seamless synergy of heat, so that he can’t distinguish where his scent ends and where Yuji’s begins. 

He feels euphoric, half-mad. Feels a borderline manic energy thrumming through him akin to how he felt the first time he bit into a ripe peach, as a child; how he felt the first time he blinked back the sunshine on his face after weeks of clouds and rain; the first time he cried, the first time he was comforted; the first time he was held within a loved one’s warm arms, the first time he kissed and was kissed in return; his first fight, his first victory, his first kill , his first fuck—dozens and then hundreds of sense memories all coalescing at once into one that seems, somehow, to encompass them all.

So this is it, he realises. The bond.

He chuckles darkly into the back of Yuji’s neck and runs his tongue across his lips—the taste of their joint pheromones so potent now that he can barely taste the sharp copper of Yuji’s blood at all.

It’s heavenly.

Still buried deep in his mate’s warm insides, Satoru’s dick twitches, and starts to swell.

“All right,” Yuta says.  “That’s enough.” He’s just caught the change in his cousin’s new scent and he has no intention of sticking around to see what happens next.

Though surely…

He wouldn’t…?

He shakes off the thought. Rises from his chair on teetering legs, like a man who’s just set foot off a ship and onto land for the first time in weeks. “We’re done here,” he announces to the room at large.

When he receives no immediate response from his fellow witnesses, he glances around at them and adds, in a tone that brokers no argument: “I said we’re done. Everyone get out.”

The council members, at least, rise at this. He watches with vague amusement as Marimoto shakes Kusakabe awake; the old man’s been snoring quietly away at the back since before Satoru and Itadori even took their clothes off, and looks around now in mild surprise to find the ceremony’s already all but over, and his companions are shuffling for the door. 

Naoya, of course, is not so easily dealt with.

“Are we really done?” he says. Rather than stand, he leans back in his seat and crosses one leg over the other as if he’s just now getting comfortable. “I think we’re still getting to the good part.”

Yuta shoots him a withering stare, then rounds on Uraume. “The bite took. The consummation is over. Do you disagree?”

He lets his pheromones flare in warning as he gazes coldly down at Sukuna’s envoy, but to Uraume’s credit, they don’t bend beneath the weight of it. 

Instead they tsk, and look away. “The bite took,” they concur, voice brimming with thinly veiled disgust. “And I suppose Kamo Noritoshi saw enough. ” They stand, more gracefully than Yuta managed, but then their sense of smell is but a fraction of Yuta’s and he’s sure they aren’t currently getting their senses assaulted like he is. They meet his eyes again. “The terms of the contract have been met. The consummation is over.” 

With nothing left to say, they send one last look of distaste over their shoulder, at the bride and groom, and then take their leave.

This leaves Yuta and Naoya alone. Well, besides Satoru and Itadori. But Yuta’s choosing not to acknowledge what they’re doing, right now, seeing as he no longer has to. 

“Naoya-san,” Yuta tells the other alpha. “I won’t ask nicely again.”

Naoya meets his glare, eyes flashing green in the darkness. “I don’t believe you asked at all, Yuta-kun.”

Yuta cocks his head, and doesn’t disagree. “I suppose not with my words, no.”

For just a moment, he allows the full force of his pheromones to radiate menacingly out of his frame—directed right at Naoya, and their message clear.

Get out before I make you get out. 

Naoya flinches; grits his teeth against the onslaught, and Yuta scents Naoya’s hackles rising in answer to the challenge before he must deduce correctly that he’s outmatched. Okkotsu Yuta isn’t Gojo Satoru’s chosen heir for nothing, after all. 

Lazily—as if it’s his decision, and his alone—he stands, dusts off the front of his kimono, and heads for the door. Of course he can’t resist giving off one last sly taunt before he’s gone.

“Do give my regards to Maki-chan,” he drawls, then, “I’ll be sure to give hers to her sister.”

Yuta clenches his fists, Naoya’s meaning crystal clear. Were they not in his cousin’s estate, then Yuta might actually…

He turns before Naoya’s gone, adopting a false smile and air as he answers, “There’s no need for either, Naoya-san.” At the other alpha’s confused glare, he finishes—

“I’m sure Maki-san will want to visit for herself very soon.”

Naoya’s scent burns angrily as he leaves, but Yuta pays it no mind. We’ll deal with him later, he thinks. For now, though, he really should be heading off. 

When Yuta departs, he doesn’t feel the need to take one last look at the newlyweds before he leaves. Quite frankly, he’s seen enough, and besides…

He’s sure his cousin can take it from here.

As Itadori Yuji’s mind fades slowly back into focus, he becomes aware of…several things.

First, he’s lying in a pool of his own come; stomach covered with it, wet and uncomfortably cool, and—

Second comes when he shifts to move away from it, and realises the reason he can’t move is because his husband is still holding him down with the full weight of his much larger body.

Third, the witnesses are gone. He doesn’t know when or how quickly they left; can barely recall what happened at all after the first sting of Satoru’s teeth biting through his skin and all that followed. But he’s certain now, even though the haze of his and Satoru’s shared pheromones, that there’s not a single soul remaining behind that partition. 

Fourth is that the sting is long faded, and the bite on his neck doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he expected it to. In fact, the faint ache of his husband’s pheromones resonating through it feels…nice. Warm and safe and right, like the first time Satoru kissed him. Like the first time Satoru held his hand. The first time Satoru made him laugh and the first time Yuji made Satoru smile, the first time Satoru spoke his given name and the first time Yuji spoke his. It feels right like the red of Satoru’s borrowed kimono, right like the smell of the wildflowers in that field, right like the golden glow of fireflies and right like the moment he knew Gojo Satoru was never, actually, the alpha Yuji thought he was. 

And fifth…

Fifth is that Gojo Satoru, Yuji’s husband and freshly bonded mate, his lips currently pressing gentle kisses across the outline of the mating mark he just imprinted onto Yuji’s skin, is still inside him.

And Yuji can’t be sure he isn’t imagining it, but his dick feels, if possible, even bigger .

“Um,” Yuji tries, his voice a faint, weak croak, and then clears his throat. “Um, Satoru-sama…” He shifts again, and feels a series of shivers down his spine at how it moves Satoru’s cock inside him. “Satoru-sama, s-something…something feels—”

“Shhh. It’s all right, darling. Just a little longer.” Before Yuji can respond, Satoru presses one last tender kiss against his cheek. His arms, still wrapped around Yuji’s midsection, tighten slightly, and then let go. Yuji looks over, face still half pressed into the mat, as Satoru braces an arm next to Yuji’s head and uses it to push himself back up onto his knees behind him.

Yuji shivers unhappily, already missing the warmth of his husband’s weight on his back. But before he can dwell on this for too long, Satoru speaks again.

“It’s my turn now,” his husband tells him, and then he grabs hold of Yuji’s hips and, in one breathless motion, pulls out.

Yuji cries out as the hot drag of his husband’s cock leaving his body is interrupted, somewhat, by a slight twinge of discomfort. As his hole stretches to compensate for an increase in girth his body hasn’t yet accommodated to. 

“Wha—” he starts, feeling a sharp spike of anxiety through his lungs, his hole clenching. bereft, around nothing. But before he can even put thought to the question he wants to voice, his world turns on its axis as Satoru flips him over. 

He sees the pink flush of desire high in his husband’s cheeks. Sees the feral hunger in his expression, and looks his husband in the eyes and sees them glowing that same otherworldly blue as before. So stark against the waning light of the candles—surely burnt down near to their wicks, by now.

Because it’s been some time since they were facing each other, Yuji realises. He wonders for how long Satoru’s eyes have looked like that, and what it bodes for him that they still look like that, even now, after the bond’s been forged and the witnesses—the other alphas, Satoru’s competition—have long gone. 

Yuji tries to make sense of it through the hazy fog of his afterglow, the new scent of their combined pheromones and the still lingering effects of the newly minted bond, but he hasn’t gotten very far when Satoru plants his hands on Yuji’s thighs and—

Spreads them.

“Yuji,” he breathes, looking up from the space between Yuji’s legs to meet his gaze, the glimmer of his eyes a thin ring around the deep black of his pupils. “Yuji, how many kids do you want?”

Yuji stares at him, uncomprehending. “K-kids? What? I…” He whimpers softly, eyes squeezing shut as he feels the head of Satoru’s cock press against his tender rim. And then his husband’s meaning catches up to him, and he blushes to the roots of his hair. “Satoru-sama, I’m n-not in heat right now. I can’t…” He squirms, cutting himself off as Satoru rubs the head, wet and teasing, over his hole a couple of times without quite pushing inside. “I can’t get pregnant ,” he finishes with a sigh, and Satoru—

Satoru smirks. 

“Are you sure about that?” he breathes without breaking eye contact, and Yuji—

Yuji doesn’t get time to respond, because no sooner has Satoru spoken the words than he’s slipped back inside in one long, searing stroke.

Yuji moans, back arching and head thrown back in overstimulated pleasure. No, he wasn’t imagining it, he realises, as his eyes flicker open to stare at the ceiling, half-lidded and foggy at the edges.

The base of Satoru’s cock is definitely wider than before. 

Satoru starts to move; starts to fuck into Yuji in tight, fast, shallow thrusts as Yuji’s hole does its best to stretch, to yield. Satoru lowers himself back down so they’re face to face, chests and stomach pressed together with no more space between them. Yuji spares a thought for the fact that the movement smears Yuji’s come all over Satoru’s stomach now, too, but his husband doesn’t seem to mind.

Satoru runs his tongue along Yuji’s throat and Yuji’s hands fly up to grip Satoru’s shoulders and hold on for dear life. He whimpers, rendered helpless and wanting with every slap of Satoru’s hips against his, with every brush of Satoru’s cock inside, with every pant of his husband’s hot breath against his neck. 

Satoru’s cock swells undeniably inside him as Satoru’s breaths quicken, each gasp edging out on a soft whine of desperation, of a helpless want to match Yuji’s, and by now Yuji knows, he knows what’s happening, knows that his husband is about to—

“Fuck,” he swears in Yuji’s ear, and Yuji’s mating mark surges with the force of Satoru’s arousal, Satoru’s feelings of pleasure and longing and mad, delirious desire thrumming so intimately through his entire being that he can barely hope to separate them from his own. 

“Fuck, Yuji, Yuji, Yuji-kun, wanna fill you, gonna fill you up so good, I’m—”

He buries his cock deep one last time and flinches with the force of his release, knot pulsing in time with Yuji’s heartbeat as he paints Yuji’s insides with wave after wave of hot come.

Yuji shivers, wraps himself around his husband, his alpha, and takes it all.

The candles have gone out completely by the time Satoru seems to come back to himself. Yuji’s lost track of time, to be honest, but he knows his husband’s been dozing for a while. He knows it’s dark out by the lack of light in the room with them, but whether it’s late night or early morning, and how far they are from the sunrise, is anyone’s guess.

His body aches slightly all over, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. Is lessened not insignificantly, he thinks, by the gentle soothing energy radiating down from Satoru’s mark through Yuji’s entire body any time Yuji feels anything more than a mildly uncomfortable twinge. Yuji had no idea the mating bond was capable of such a thing. He wonders if it is always like this, or if an alpha could use this connection to hurt their omega, too. He stamps down the thought, because it doesn’t matter anymore. 

Satoru won’t hurt him. He shifts in Yuji’s arms, makes a soft, sleepy noise into Yuji’s shoulder, and returns Yuji’s embrace for the first time since he came. He breathes in, long and deep, and hums happy vibrations into Yuji’s skin, appearing to enjoy Yuji’s new scent as much as, Yuji can only assume, he enjoyed his old one. 

“Yuji,” he sighs, “you…”

He stiffens, a sobering sense of realisation flickering through their bond as he must notice, then, that—

“Ah,” he says flatly, and Yuji’s delighted to note that his husband is actually embarrassed. 

Satoru props himself up so they can see each other’s faces again, and Yuji’s notices that his eyes are back to their normal state, his pupils wide now only in response to the lack of light and his expression lucid once more.

“Sorry about, uh. This.” Satoru gestures vaguely downwards, to where his cock is still plugged inside Yuji’s ass by his knot. “I didn’t plan on it, I assure you.”

Yuji laughs, and Satoru must feel the vibrations through his cock because he hisses slightly, and then reaches up and playfully covers Yuji’s mouth. 

“Careful now,” he says, tone and scent devoid of any real menace. “Or you’ll get me going again, and who knows where we’ll end up?”

Yuji makes a muffled sound of disbelief, through his palm, and now it’s Satoru’s turn to laugh, the sound gentle and sweet. He takes his hand away and uses it to cup Yuji’s cheek instead, as they gaze thoughtfully into each other’s eyes for a little while. 

Yuji moves his hips a little, experimentally, and enjoys the sharp intake of breath it elicits from his mate. He smirks, feeling pleased with himself, but Satoru turns the tables soon enough; leans in to the kiss the smirk off of his face, and Yuji wraps his arms around his husband’s neck and melts into it, sighing contentedly as they bask in the pleasant intimacy of their own private company. 

“How long,” Yuji mumbles when they break apart to breathe, “does it…” He glances down at where they’re joined, at the hips. “You know. Last.”

Satoru glances down at himself, then back to Yuji. “I couldn’t tell you for certain. I don’t do it often.” His expression comes across as self-deprecating and almost, to Yuji’s shock, shy. “Well, it doesn’t happen to me often,” he clarifies, then considers for a moment, frowning. “It should go down in…an hour or two, maybe?”

At Yuji’s horrified expression, he laughs again, and Yuji feels the soothing aura of his pheromones pump through their bond as he hastily adds, “But it’s been a while, so that’s just my best guess. And anyway—” With surprising grace and only some slight discomfort, on Yuji’s part, he manhandles them into a different position. Moves them both so they’re laying sideways now, Yuji’s back to Satoru’s chest and their legs tangled comfortably together as Satoru wraps his arms around Yuji’s middle and pulls him in close. 

“We’re alone now,” Satoru murmurs into the back of Yuji’s neck, right above the mark. “And I’ll make sure no one bothers us. So let’s just rest and wait until it goes down, okay?”

Yuji hums in agreement, relaxing into Satoru’s hold as he stretches out, long and languid, and enjoys the noise his husband makes when the motion unintentionally tightens his body around Satoru’s cock. “Okay, Satoru-sama,” he says, then adds, feeling petulant, “but I’m not going again, all right?” He yawns. “You got your nap, so let me have mine.”

Satoru chuckles. “So we’re back to Satoru-sama , huh?” He rubs a warm hand up over Yuji’s stomach to play idly with his nipple. 

Yuji half-turns on him, outraged. “What did I just—”

Satoru kisses him, and Yuji’s ire quickly fades. He returns the kiss and they enjoy it together, for a while, before breaking apart. Yuji turns back to face the wall, breathing heavily, and near rolls his eyes when he feels himself growing hard again. 

Gojo Satoru will be the death of me , he grumbles internally, and tries to think of what he can imagine to make his erection go soft before his husband notices it. 

“Does it hurt?” Satoru asks softly, and Yuji startles, thinking he means Yuji’s dick before his brain catches up with him and he realises Satoru’s staring at the back of his neck. “The bond.”

Yuji shakes his head, letting his eyes fall closed as tiredness finally looms and threatens to overtake him. “No,” he says. “It feels…warm.” He smiles, bringing his own hand up to cover Satoru’s on his chest. “I like it.”

A pause so long from behind him that Yuji wonders if Satoru’s fallen asleep again, and then, “I like it, too.”

The bond pulses once more, with the force of Satoru’s like, and Yuji sighs into it, content to let the pleasant rush of his alpha’s affection carry him into sleep. The last words he hears before sleep finally pulls him into its welcome embrace, are—

“I like you, Yuji. I like you too.”

Chapter Text

Yuji wakes up to pale splashes of daylight beaming in through the north-eastern wall, to the comforting warmth of another body at his back, to the sounds of his husband’s soft breathing, and to—

Satoru’s dick, knot deflated but rock hard inside him once more.

Yuji’d be exasperated—in fact he still is, just a little—if it weren’t for the fact that, well. He’s hard again, too. Near unpleasantly so. He twists uncomfortably in place, trying to turn half onto his stomach so he can relieve some of the pressure against the friction of the mat without alerting his husband.

A few tedious seconds of this, and then, “What are you doing?” Satoru asks, and Yuji startles so hard it jolts them both. 

He rounds on his husband, face flaming with embarrassment, to find Satoru wide awake, his blue eyes alight with fond amusement. “I—” he splutters, “You—what are you doing? You’re supposed to be asleep!”

Satoru smirks. “Since when?” he purrs. “I woke up before you, sweetheart.” His smirk deepens into something more wicked. “And I’ve been quite enjoying our time together.” He gently thrusts forward, down below, eliciting a shocked but not entirely displeased gasp from Yuji as his husband’s cock brushes against his insides once more.

Yuji wants to be annoyed, but his dick twitches treacherously, eager for relief. Feeling bold and perhaps bolstered by the heat of his husband’s arousal he can feel flickering through their bond, Yuji takes hold of Satoru’s wrist and guides his hand down from his stomach to his dick. 

Satoru needs no further encouragement; Yuji’s meaning is clear.

They make love again. This time, Satoru coaxes Yuji into his lap; leans back into the pile of plush cushions the servants must have come in and left for them while they were sleeping, and watches as Yuji lowers himself down, inch by extraordinary inch, onto his cock. Yuji utters a broken off gasp when he feels their hips meet, his husband fully sheathed inside, braces his hands on Satoru’s solid chest, and starts to move. 

Yuji’s always been good at riding, and this is no different. He rocks his hips in a steady building rhythm that thrills him deep inside and thrills his husband, all the more. Satoru’s hands grip his hips and Satoru watches him, transfixed, beads of sweat forming at his hairline as his breathing grows heavier with want. 

As Yuji nears his climax his movements falter, soft moans he can’t contain turning loud and desperate when Satoru’s fingers wrap around his cock again and jerk him off at a lazy, luxurious pace. He comes like that, comes into his husband’s palm, the orgasm squeezed out of him excruciatingly slow and persistent as he arches back and shamelessly cries—

“Satoru–!”

—for all in the estate to hear, for all he cares, though he knows he’ll feel mortified about it later.

Afterwards he doubles over, boneless and pliant, and falls into Satoru’s welcoming embrace when his husband rises up to pull him close.

“You did so good,” Satoru murmurs into his ear, their bond thrumming with his pleasure. “Now let me…” And then he grips Yuji’s hips and thrusts ruthlessly upwards into Yuji’s overstimulated hole, over and over, teeth biting indents into Yuji’s shoulder as Yuji whines and whimpers in his arms. 

His husband comes inside him as Yuji squeezes him tight, and though Satoru doesn’t knot this time Yuji still feels so impossibly full that it takes his breath away.

Satoru hails a servant and has a bath drawn for them afterwards, in one of the antechambers set aside last night for their bedding. Yuji’s surprised but quietly pleased when, after he’s already gotten into the wooden tub, Satoru climbs in too and eases out a space for himself at Yuji’s back. It’s a tight fit but they make it work, Satoru’s arms around Yuji’s middle and Yuji wedged comfortably between Satoru’s legs. 

The water is warm and soothing against Yuji’s lightly bruised skin and aching muscles, and he leans back sleepily against Satoru’s chest, eyes closed. 

“Tired again already?” Satoru teases, chest rumbling with the words. “And here I thought the famed brother of Ryomen Sukuna might be made of stronger stuff.”

Yuji’s pride smarts at the mention of Sukuna, and he blinks his eyes back open to scowl at his husband. “Is that all I am to you, still?” he complains. “Just Sukuna’s brother?”

Satoru kisses him, bond pulsing with unrelenting affection that quickly sets Yuji’s mind at ease. “Not at all, darling,” he murmurs, then grins, a playful dimple taking form in his cheek. “You’re also a very fine piece of a—”

Yuji splashes him in the face.

The atmosphere is strange but not unpleasantly so, as they finish up in the tub and climb out. As they dry themselves off in comfortable silence, Yuji shooting furtive, hidden glances at Satoru’s bare form all the while, curious and in open awe of his alpha’s physique. 

On the fifth time, Satoru catches him at it and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve seen it all already, surely,” he says, and Yuji blushes.

“Yeah,” Yuji answers, shifting his gaze away shyly. “But I still like to look, is all.”

A pause, and then a soft laugh and the sweet rush of Satoru’s fondness through the bond. “Well, you can look as freely as you like. There’s no need to be shy about it.” He doesn’t bother to keep the suggestiveness out of his voice when he adds, “I’ll certainly not be shy about looking my fill of you. ”

Yuji glances back over, still blushing under the weight of these words and his husband’s burning gaze, but he allows Satoru to close the distance between their bodies again shortly thereafter. Allows Satoru to kiss him again, lips pressing gentle and delicate and then firmer, his husband’s intent clear.

As Satoru licks into Yuji’s mouth, arms curled around Yuji’s waist and cock growing hard again against Yuji’s stomach, Yuji thinks, helplessly, We’re going to need another bath.

It must surely be cresting midday by the time they finally emerge from the bedding chamber, Satoru looking effortlessly pristine and Yuji looking like someone’s who’s just been debauched for the third time in twelve hours. In truth, Yuji’s relieved not to be weighed down by the heavy silk of his wedding kimono anymore—clad now in just a light but likely no less expensive yukata, courtesy of the Gojo clan. 

The first thing he notices when he steps outside is—

“Choso?” he says, seeing his personal guard sitting on the floor outside the door, knees drawn up in front of his chest, head leaning back against the wall and eyes closed.

He’s asleep , Yuji realises, and stares stupidly down at him, not sure if it would be more considerate to wake him or let him rest. “How…” he starts, mostly to himself, and then feels Satoru come to stand beside him. 

“Hm?” Satoru muses, looking down on Choso impassively. “Why do you seem so shocked? He’s been here all night. Though I think he’s only just—”

Yuji rounds on him, alarmed. “He’s what? ” he hisses, trying to keep his voice down despite his disbelief. A helpful montage of everything that transpired last night and also this morning plays through Yuji’s mind, and he finds himself wishing to sink into the floor and never be seen again.

His mortification must come through in his scent, because Satoru snorts, eyes dancing shamelessly with amusement, and brings a hand up to his face in mock horror. “Oh dear,” he says, not sounding contrite at all. “Do you think maybe he heard you—”

Yuji presses an irate hand against his mouth, and contemplates dragging his husband down into the floor with him.

They’re both saved the political headache that would no doubt cause by Choso choosing this moment to wake up. His eyes flicker open and blink into the air, disoriented for a moment, before glancing up and widening at the sight of Yuji and Satoru standing above him.

“ Yuji, ” he breathes, voice fracturing in his throat with relief. “Thank goodness. Are you okay?” He completely ignores Satoru, and Yuji suppresses a snort of his own at the twinge of his husband’s stung pride that simmers through the bond in response.

“I’m fine,” Yuji says, then, “More importantly, are you ? Satoru said you were—” He cuts himself off, face colouring as Choso’s brows draw together because he’s noticed exactly what Yuji thinks he’s noticed. 

Beside him, Satoru could not be exuding a more smug sense of satisfaction if he tried, because he’s noticed, too.

Satoru. No honorific. It’s the first time he’s referred to Satoru so informally in front of one of his friends. 

“Anyway!” he says, perhaps a little louder than necessary. “I’m starving.” True, technically, but also a very obvious play at changing the subject. “Shall we…” He glances between the two of them, both of them conveying separately with their eyes and expressions how very much they aren’t wanting him to suggest what he’s about to suggest.

But he does it anyway.

“Shall we go have some breakfast, then?”

Breakfast with Yuji and the Kamo—no, Choso , he must remember to call him by his name from now on—is far less tedious than Satoru anticipated. Though Choso still seems rather unfairly suspicious of him, Satoru’s not overly concerned. As long as he has Yuji on his side, Satoru can weather anything from his more distrustful entourage. And if anything, it pleases him to see that there are people in Yuji’s life who love him enough to want to protect him from the strange alpha he’s just been bonded to against his will, though it being against Yuji’s will is, in Satoru’s eyes, up for debate at this point.

As far as Satoru’s memories are concerned, his mate was more than willing to take the bite that bonded them. 

As far as Satoru’s memories are concerned, he was desperate for it. 

And he wasn’t the only one, Satoru thinks dryly, as their meal draws to a close, and he hails down a pair of servants to start clearing their dishes away. He cringes internally, just a little, remembering the way his inner alpha took hold and wouldn’t let go at the tail end of the consummation. Remembers too the way his pheromones spiked into overdrive around the other alphas in the room, even his own cousin, and just how close he came to fighting them all. 

Remembers the sight of Yuji’s bared neck, and the longing urge to sink his teeth into it and mark it as his, forever. The urge he gave into, to his and Yuji’s mutual pleasure. 

And then, of course, there was…

Suguru spits his drink.

“You knotted—? ” he gasps, and then coughs a couple of times to clear his throat, pounding his chest for good measure. 

“Keep it down,” Satoru mutters, glaring at the servants looming just within earshot, right outside the room.

They’re in his study again, around mid afternoon, and Satoru’s just gotten done regaling Suguru with the basic gist of how the consummation went. He bid a temporary goodbye to Yuji a little while ago, to grant Yuji some time to share whatever details he wishes to with his own friends, and is faintly aware of his mate through the bond, at the other end of the estate in the bridal quarters. 

The distance irritates him, and he makes a mental note to expedite the process of moving Yuji into the main estate as soon as possible. Of moving Yuji into Satoru’s personal quarters. Of moving Yuji into Satoru’s bedchamber, specifically. 

“Sorry,” Suguru splutters, then takes another long draught of tea to soothe his throat. “I’m just surprised, is all.” He smirks, eyes laced with gentle mockery. “It’s cute. Reminds me of our teenage years.”

Satoru groans. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he grumbles, but Suguru only laughs, unbothered.

“What caused it, do you think?” he asks, and Satoru frowns, recalling the moment he first noticed his knot forming. 

“The bite,” he says, certain, then looks up to meet Suguru’s eyes. “It was right after I marked him, and forged the bond.”

Suguru nods, expression considering. “That is strange,” he muses. “The forming of the bond is powerful, I’m sure, but I’ve never known it to trigger a knot. Well, outside of ruts, but you’re not—”

“Not in rut right now, no,” Satoru says, cutting off that line of thought before they can waste any more time on it. Unlike omega heats, alpha ruts aren’t exactly a regular occurrence, and Satoru’s never been able to track when his are coming or plan for them in advance. But he knows the difference between being in rut and being his regular self, and other than his first fumbling sexual experiences with Suguru over ten years ago, Satoru’s never once knotted outside of his rut.

Suguru hums thoughtfully, watching Satoru with a calculated look in his eye. “Hm. Maybe it was…? No.” He shakes his head. “It couldn’t be.”

Satoru glares at him. “Maybe it was what? Just say it.”

Suguru smiles softly, unmoved, and waves Satoru’s off. “No, no. You won’t like it.”

Satoru reaches over and pokes him in the head. “Say it anyway.”

Suguru pulls his hand away and places it on the desk between them. “Maybe he’s your destined mate,” he says without breaking eye contact, and Satoru…

Satoru gags. “Gross,” he says, taking his arm back and crossing it with the other across his chest. 

Suguru chuckles. “See? I told you you wouldn’t like it. But should you really dismiss it so easily?” He cocks his head. “Yuji being destined for you would explain a few things, actually.”

“It doesn’t explain anything, because it’s not real.” Satoru snaps. “Destined mates are just an old folktale sad housewives dream about to make their miserable lives more bearable.”

Suguru huffs a laugh. “Perhaps you’re right. But there may be some truth to the legend, no?” A pause as Satoru just stares at him flatly. Then—

“Don’t you think it’s interesting,” Suguru says, “that Yuji presented as omega so late in his years, and so soon after Sukuna betrothed him to Zenin Naoya?”

Satoru’s mood sours at the mention of Naoya. “There’s nothing interesting about it,” he says darkly. “Sukuna wanted to…” He scowls. “Marry him off to Naoya, but decided I was the better option.” And Naoya can thank all the Gods of the realm for the Warlord’s changed mind, Satoru thinks viciously, because I would have razed his clan to the ground to get Yuji away from them.

Some hints of his temper must radiate through the bond, because he feels an answering concern from Yuji’s end of it in response. He calms himself, sends a soothing wave of reassurance through to his mate, and returns his focus to the conversation.

“Yes,” Suguru is saying patiently, as one might speak to a child. “Sukuna chose you as the better option, because Yuji presented as omega and you needed an omega bride. But if Yuji hadn’t presented—if he had remained a beta, like everyone expected he would be—he would have been wedded to Naoya instead.” He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Do you understand?”

Satoru does. “So his body changed, and it just so happened to be convenient timing. That doesn’t make it destiny , Suguru,” he says, and sighs, glancing out the window. The sun is starting to travel low in the sky, and he’s keen to see Yuji again before nightfall. “It’s all just luck, at the end of the day.”

He rises, and Suguru remains seated, taking another sip of his tea. “I suppose so,” he concedes. “In any case, it was just a suggestion. Something to think about.”

Satoru casts his gaze up at the sky on the walk to Yuji’s quarters, pleased to see by the placement of the sun that there’s still time, yet, for what he has planned.

When he arrives at the building itself, he remembers with a faint sense of amusement how much it annoyed him, yesterday, to make his way endlessly through winding passages and dead ends in search of his bride. Remembers how he never got to see Yuji in the end, anyway, thanks to Choso, and how absurdly this aggravated him.

“In under an hour, you’ll be married. After that, he’s yours.”

Satoru smirks as he ducks his head under the doorframe, and steps inside the guest quarters for the second time in under a day. The words bothered him so much then; the very notion that he would want Itadori Yuji at all repulsed him. 

What a complete and utter fool he was. And how right, indeed, was Choso?

Yuji is his. 

And he is Yuji’s. 

This time, he finds Yuji within minutes. The bond draws him to his mate as if pulled by an invisible string of burnished gold, and his breathing quickens when he turns that same corner as before, and catches the hint of orange blossoms that signify just how close he is to seeing Yuji again. 

This time, there is no one in the hallway to stop him. Why would they? Yuji has nothing to fear from Satoru. Yuji will have nothing to fear from anyone , for the rest of his long, precious life. 

He slides open the door, and catches his mate already looking over to see him, a bright smile taking shape upon his face as he greets, “Satoru-san!”

Satoru grins down at him, realising that just as he could sense Yuji, then of course Yuji could sense him too. 

“Yuji,” he sighs with ineffable relief. I missed you , streaks treacherously through his mind, but he would sooner die than speak the words out loud in front of Yuji’s companions.

Because Yuji’s not alone, of course. He’s sitting cross legged on the floor without a care, Choso at one side and the other omega— Junpei , is his name—on the other. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Satoru announces to the room at large, though of course he isn’t sorry at all. He glances down at Yuji and quirks a knowing eyebrow. “But Yuji and I have a prior engagement to make.”

Yuji stares blankly up at him for a beat or two before catching on, then he beams with delight.

“Of course!” he says, bond flushing warm and sweet with his excitement, and scrambles to stand. “Don’t worry,” he tells his friends as he takes a moment to dust off the back of his yukata like it’s a hessian sack and not the most finely pressed cotton Satoru’s clan could afford. “I’ll see you tonight at supper for sure.”

He near skips to Satoru’s side, blushing cutely all the while, and Satoru—

Satoru wants to devour him on the spot, but he refrains.

There’ll be plenty of time for that after supper. For now there are other pleasures to attend to. 

On the way to the gardens, Satoru asks how Yuji’s afternoon with his friends went.

“They’ve known me a long time,” Yuji tells him sheepishly. “So they’re really protective. And they were a little, uh.” A tactful pause. “Concerned, after…well, after what happened at the wedding.”

Satoru nods, and huffs a soft self-deprecating laugh. “Yes, I recall. I suppose I wasn’t exactly exuding charm, was I?”

Yuji giggles. “Total opposite,” he says bluntly, and Satoru bumps shoulders with him, playing at being offended. 

“But I got better, right?” he entreats, shamelessly reaching out for reassurance through their bond and internally preening when Yuji offers it without hesitation. “You’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?”

“Mm.” His mate scrunches up his face in a look of dubious consideration, though his pheromones welcome Satoru with open arms. “I s’pose so.”

Satoru laughs. Feels possessed by a sudden urge and figures there’s no reason, now, why he shouldn’t lean in and press a kiss to Yuji’s cheek. 

Yuji’s face warms at the gesture, and he looks away, bashful but clearly pleased.

Satoru watches him. “Did you tell them?” he murmurs, breath close enough to Yuji’s ear that his mate shivers under the sensation. “About what happened after, ” he clarifies, but can see by the brightness of Yuji’s blush that he needn’t have bothered.

Yuji waits until Satoru’s leaned back into his own space to answer. “I told them a little,” he admits. “Not—not any major details, or anything, but…” He smiles, delicate and soft. “I told them it felt good. I told them I liked it.” He looks up and meets Satoru’s gaze. “I told them that despite everything going on around us, I felt safe with you, Satoru-san.”

Satoru’s heart skips a beat, and now it’s his turn to look away. The strongest alpha in the realm rendered speechless by nothing more than the weight of his own mate’s sincerity.

“It’ll take time before we can all get along with each other,” Yuji quietly continues, after a moment. “But they’ll grow to like you eventually. I’m sure of it.”

Satoru shrugs. “Whether they like me or not makes no difference.” He leans into Yuji’s space again, sly. “As long as Yuji-kun likes me, I have everything I need.”

Yuji laughs, and at the question in Satoru’s eyes, says, “It’s just funny, is all. I spent months worrying about how to make you like me, and in the end I don’t feel like I did any of the things I was supposed to. But somehow you ended up liking me anyway.” He looks up at Satoru with a shrewd, teasing gaze. “Have you just got really low standards, Satoru-san?”

“No,” Satoru answers without hesitation, the word spoken with perhaps a little more intensity than the situation calls for. “No, Yuji, my standards are exceptionally high.” He stops walking, for a moment, and reaches out. Cups Yuji’s cheek and leans in again, and this time when he kisses Yuji he aims for his lips, instead. 

Yuji kisses him back with a soft, needy little moan Satoru’s going to hold inside his lungs for a very long time, and then Satoru feels Yuji’s hands pushing at his chest, and Yuji breaks away.

“Satoru-san,” he murmurs, eyes dreamy. “You really are so charming, when you want to be.”

Satoru grins, bond humming with pride at his mate’s praise. “I suppose it’s a shame I don’t often want to be,” he jokes.

But something about you…

He clears his throat, then nods at the base of a familiar hill, in the distance. “Look. We’re almost there.”

Yuji follows his gaze, turning his head to the side and granting Satoru an uninhibited view of the back of his neck and Satoru’s mating bite, peeking out from just under the collar of his yukata.

A dark thrill of possessive desire rushes through Satoru’s veins and, by extension, the mating bond, and Satoru enjoys watching the way the realisation of it shivers through Yuji’s frame.

“Yuji,” he commands, voice low. “I’d like you to sleep in my chambers tonight.”

Yuji looks back up at him, scent sweetening with want to match Satoru’s own. “Yes, Satoru-san.” He smiles, knowing exactly what Satoru’s actually asking for. “I’d like that, too.”

The late afternoon sun paints the flower fields in bright, vibrant colour, just as Satoru promised Yuji it would. A far better sight, Satoru should think, than the one they got to enjoy last night, and he suspects Yuji agrees.

Satou slows his pace and hangs back, watches his mate walk happily through the fields of bold red camellias, of bright yellow hibiscus, of twirling twining lilac wisteria and bushels of chrysanthemum in every imaginable colour. Of crimson tiger lily and baby blue eyes in a soft, subtle violet—a Gojo clan favourite—spread wide across the grounds as far as the eye can see.

He watches as Yuji strolls amongst the flowers, the bumblebees and butterflies, and thinks about how much better this sight is for him, too. Thinks to himself as the blazing warmth of the summer sun paints the apple of Yuji cheeks and the line of his jaw in hues of breathtaking bronzed gold, how magnificently Yuji shines beneath its light.

Thinks to himself, with no small measure of jealousy, that here is a boy whose skin was made to be kissed by the sun.

The thought crosses his mind then, of the life Yuji might have had without him. Of his sweet Yuji broken and confined to a cold Zenin cage, and Satoru suppresses a wave of melancholy, thankful once more for the good fortune that brought them to know one another. 

Good fortune, he thinks, or something else?

Maybe he’s your destined mate.

Is it possible, Satoru wonders, that Yuji could have been made not just for the sun, but for him, too?

Don’t you think it’s interesting…

And beyond that, Satoru wonders—

Was I made for Yuji? Am I right, for Yuji?

He allows himself the displeasure of imagining another future; a future where Yuji never presented, but Yuji didn’t have to marry Zenin Naoya either. Imagines a world where Yuji stayed a beta all his life, where he loved and wedded and bedded whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and lived a long life free of clan politics and public humiliations and noble expectations. Imagines how Yuji might have shone, how Yuji might have thrived under all the freedom being a no-name beta who married for love granted him. 

Is this life, Satoru thinks, heart bittersweet, the right life for you, Yuji?

Yuji—currently in the process of thoroughly examining a bright green beetle perched on the log they sat on last night—must sense some level of disquiet through their bond, because he looks back at Satoru with a soft, puzzled frown writ across his face, and Satoru…

Satoru lets his doubts wash away as easily as sand under an ocean wave. 

Destiny, chance, coincidence, luck; none of it matters. Whether Satoru was made for Yuji, Yuji made for Satoru or they just happened to stumble across each other, in the right place at the right time, Satoru doesn’t care.

Whether this life was made for Yuji or it wasn’t, Satoru doesn’t care.

Because that’s what Satoru’s here for. What use is it, after all, being the strongest alpha in the realm, if he himself can’t create the life full of joy and laughter and light that his mate deserves?

Their eyes meet, and Yuji must find some semblance of comfort in Satoru’s gaze, because the frown quickly dispels into an eager, boyish grin.

“Satoru-san!” he calls, expression turning cheeky as he beckons Satoru over. “Come look, this bug has your eyes. Are you two related?”

Satoru laughs, the question as endearing as it is completely absurd, and enough of both to assuage any other concerns he might have had still lingering at the back of his mind.

“That had better be one seriously good-looking beetle, Itadori Yuji,” he calls back in warning. “Or you’re in big trouble.”

Yuji laughs, the sound of it bright and carefree as it carries across the fields. An ease settles over Satoru quite unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and he crosses the distance between himself and his mate for the last time.